Giant Ghosts Of The Winter Drift

You are a friend of man.
And my thoughts are left to picking battles.
Unequivocal discovery,
Finding you in the realm of love.
As words from the old bard,
"What's in a name?
That which we call a rose,
By any other name would smell as sweet."
Your presence is so overtly significant,
These feelings have not yet been named.
Spinning and shining from where things are,
And where they're supposed to be.
What will be,
Never will be.
I can't convince myself you're really there.

Through life's rich pageant,
I dance with you.
If only fleeting and timeless.
A great commission for touch and embrace,
That which you cannot possibly possess.
Scared.
Sacred.
You have my sympathies.
And to whatever devil or saint you accompany,
When you're not roaming unchecked in my own reverie,
I raise my drink to the contenders.
Never will they have faced such an invisible and unconquerable foe.

I only posture when necessary.
I only parade when asked.
Risen,
From the ice world.
Where you've grown oh so cold.
Where you live oh so cold.
Embers only dying now,
From a fire long ago.
With a knife in your belt,
Stabbing for my soul,
You are no friend of man.
Taken,
In the night.
Like an aviator's baby boy.
With no steps through the door,
Levitate across the floor,
With the cold wind in the lunar light.
I tire more expediently than before.
Yet, the mind loses no step.
It is the crime of the century.
Profoundly significant confusion.
I am terrified,
There will be no conclusion.

Why did you find the most sentimental of lovers?
May it haunt you as you haunt me.
So what can you see up there?
Where no one exists.
How does it look up there?
Hovering high above.
On the pedestal where I've placed you.