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THE STRANGER

 
Much like the sun paints the canvas
This reality indifferent to our senses
She, stood there as the arboreal stand
Unimpressionable vibrance amongst the bleak
Her dress wafted ever gently, slowly
As leaves falling upon a familiar shade
With hair like the river upon stone
And a voice, tangible as the current


Vague silhouette, such is my nature
To chisel the marble to pearl
A puzzle I must solve
I converse, to unfurl


An anomalous experience, déjà vu


Our lives were as tangent waves
From our fears, we could escape
Ebbing away, tallying days
In the sparsity of a second


Even still...
One question remained to spill
Her expression was a poor façade
And I hid my own beneath a nod
I felt I knew her as my reflection
Quite crystalline, the inflection
Behind the eyes that gripped my soul
A penumbra of what was once whole


She was bereaved, this much I knew
Just after she adjusted her wit
Saw me there, her anxiety grew
And her attention I'd promptly requite


Why was this all so familiar?


The true sadness in her heart
Was displayed as a still life painting
Brushed with the most joyous scheme
Is this what it is to be melancholy?


Out from my head, the dream was dead
All that remained of her face
And the train set off, she was gone
Before I could ask her name


Despite this, an impulse arrived
Beside myself, I'm urged to sigh
Only then, clarity, I knew her well
As the texture of that headstone, felt


She was me, and now I grieve
As the train disappears
Into the sunset of acceptance
Written by UbiquitousVoid (. . . . . . . . .)
Published
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