H.V.S.

The beauty of sadness is often missed
by those long chained to the daily round
whose eyes are fettered by temporal need:
their ears are deaf to the stillness of sound
that floats upon air with the stealth of a kiss,
when love in the breast is kindled anew
and happiness swirls through the mind without heed,
implanted upon an image of you.
The trembling fear of undeclared love
on the fluttering wings of a newly flown dove
soars heavenward, dives earthward, in joy and despair,
despising the roost yet afraid of the air:
impossible love, how you burn in my heart!
Together we are, yet aeons apart.