The Man Without Love

A man without love is a man lost,
Picture one, if ye can,
A day when all preach,
Of a day yet to come; when a day farther away,
Shall be blind to the sun.

Thence, the abiding and the unsigned,
Dispersed or aligned, shall matter no more,
For a man without love is a man lost,
And he cares not of the form,
Shaping in the darkness,
His eyes are inward, towards the time behind,
At the scattered filaments of pleasure,
Of moments unattained,
Of strangers who remained strangers,
Left searching alone through artless existence.

Thus a man without love is a man lost,
He as soon forgets the present,
As he remembers the past,
And try to trade one for the other,
Till none really lasts,
Being beggared thus must he wander,
Searching through artless existence, alone.

So, picture one, if ye can,
A day when all preach,
Of a day yet to come; when a day farther away,
Shall be blind to the sun.

4 thoughts on “The Man Without Love

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