One Tear Against a Thousand Forms

Of all romance, and of all aromas,
Romantic and aromatic,
Footsteps fall onto the floor with grace,
And allow the moon to drop that single tear,
Upon her ever-worn and smoothed face,
Alike the rocks that receive the wind.

Love is a calling,
To her feeble form.
Though, she is but a stone,
With the fragrant moss upon her gray skin,
Still youthful, with all the energy
Befitting a woman young at heart.

How would I kiss this vision
Without knowing the curse to which
Makes me a man without acceptance?
I have to be in love,
With this strange and anguished dove,
Her form only a heap of stone.

One tear against a thousand forms,
One tear against a thousand pebbles,
That have receded to the bottom of a lake,
Caught by the touch of Autumn,
With fiery leaves against the surface.
For that lake is only
A single flattened teardrop upon the Earth’s soil,
That is greater in fragrance than herself.

Could she ever lift herself?
Starve herself,
Before I find beauty elsewhere?