the somber song

we’d need a thing taller than love–
to heal us, of our broken faith, lovers
a thing– taller than the stoic mountain
it’d wish be regarded
capped in sun-brushed, purple-heather sway
tho at its peaks, a petulant child, it’d be
bellowing its stone-tablet demands
aye, its red-faced, screaming needs
tho if it should listen
with compassion
it’d hear even
a fallen tear’s trailing whimper
we’d need a thing sager
than love, lovers
silent, when instead
it should roar
in defense of those unable
as are even those strongest of men
when midnight’s loathing
throws its sooty cloak over
our days
as even horizons know limits
we’d need a thing wider than love
my lovers–
to open its broad arms
in empathy’s grace
to accept, all we are
thus far, unforgiven–
to comprehend– we are not lonely
for wish of more company
billions of us, teeming
crawling over each other
to be known
loneliness is only
the hums and murmurs
of those souls, voiceless
in the long wander
the slow piano music
more absence, than sound
which finds no white-frill dancers
to glide within its subtle rhythms
the somber song
that only one
shall hear