Wasted Years

Snow falls outside my window, again,
just like it does each December.

My heart breaks into pieces, again,
just like it does each December.

All the years
I yearned for you -
a bad habit,
a customary ritual,
a tapestry embellished,
a cloak to hide behind.

Daily thoughts,
a vacuous ceremony
in matters of the heart,
so easily wounded,
a shaft buried deep in my soul.

Look into my eyes,
see not the blue of calm waters,
but the storm raging within.

Through the years of blindness,
carrying a torch long ago extinguished,
casting no light,
giving no warmth.

A gift given,
now taken away;
the box never opened,
the song never sung.

© 2008 Michael Shelby