For Mary

 There are too many things I could say
To you, about you, for you, for me,
That I would need pages and
Pages to truly make you see
What I do, every time I open my eyes
To drink in your perfect form,
Or every time my eyelids sink,
Clouding my mind, no less by the coming of dawn,
You make it much too difficult to think.
Mistaken, objected to the harshest of judgments
A blossom growing from rich, loving soil,
Who blooms despite nature’s temperament
Which would have lesser others spoiled.
I try my best to smooth the ruffled petals
And repair the damage done,
But have to ask, have I weathered enough myself
To offer any trickle of insight with which to combat such a darkness?
Who am I to light the false path, in the
Vain arrogance that I know how to best deal with such emotions,
For I am but a bucket to her well.  
A star, hidden by the imperfections of her universe;
Can I possibly hope to hold a candle to her veiled light?
I wonder when she’s grown who will she be?
Certainly, a love lost to me.
She has all the time in the world to escape, to heal,
Yet I hope it isn’t enough, for I love the person
That her troubles have created.
And I won’t be the last. It hurts to say, much more to write,
As I sit here alone, as I will again one night,
Surely regretting, trying to recall her face,
Her smile, her eyes, her stories,
Her cries. And I’ll most likely fail to find
Hidden deep in my useless mind,
That young girl called Mary.
I can only hope I have sense enough to retain
A connection that allows me to find her once more,
And go stand in the wind and the rain,
Hoping it’s her, alone, who answers the door. 

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