Of A Dying Breed Poem by Christopher Holman

Holding the hollow tendencies we once cherished
I weep the tears of a failing dream
saluting a ship that never sailed
worshiping the deity that never created
holding the one that never loved.

I can not remember those days anymore
failing heartbeats and shaking hands
tripping clumsily over inadequate words
voicing that which no one understands
slipping into that surreal dream...

That could not have been me, I lost my love to the Moon
or was it she that I was with, the one at the park
pushing her on that swing with not but a smile
holding, shielding her from the wind as it howled spitefully
I miss even the hatred now, the sting is an old friend...

Nights so slow I can caress the beauty
my most cherished dawn was after the sunfall
the touch, the breath, the kiss
dim lights and undaunting eyes
they'll never see us again...

Those significant glances, those insignificant words
there's nothing like it
nothing but the decay, the false decay
the belief everything is alright
because nothing is alive now, God has spoiled it
we have spoken of hell while upon it
each breath, an act of masochism by nature.

I will endure the pain, but never embrace it
the same way I will see her, but never hold her
I can never kiss her again, I can never call her mine
I will never have that life, I will never sample that love again
it is all lost, casting thorns to the wind

Shout at the ever cascading waterfall, he shall never bend
curse at the invincible mountain, he shall never bow
call to the intrepid wind, he shall never slow
pray to the deaf Gods, they shall never listen
take hold of indecipherable love, and it shall never relent

Slowly it mounts higher and higher, rising like a great blue mountain
his temptress calls to him, calls him to build above others
he rages, he torrents, but finally, he tilts
with a shudder to make Him flinch he crashes
yet over and over, he does it, with nothing but a call
the shimmering widow of the night, the lone queen
my tear, my only tear

I love this mistress
the dream, the silhouette, the queen, the moon
my only fear, my only joy
the joy in loathing, the secret in my eyes
a beginning to what I will never earn
temptress of despair, I fear nothing but you.
Can it be true? Has this poison of love infected me?
Indeed, the tear shows honesty.
Sorrow from love?
Remorse for my actions?
Honesty in the face of pain?
I am surely of a dying breed