Prose

Indeed we are alone. So far, so distant from those within arms reach. Where faces upon faces wander, from the first glimpse of morning’s awakening. Striving, yearning, needing. Our eyes lifting to the rising sun, straining to see what may await, beyond the waves, on the horizon.

To what are we waiting for. Maybe a taste of the sweet nectar of a lasting joy. Oh the search of what shall fill the bottomless void of emptiness within the depths of our souls. Meander we shall, until the release of night lures the sun and all her glory to the deep. With the fading of the sun so the fading of our hope. Another day hath passed that joy and happiness hath become no more than sand which slides through our desperately grasping fingers. Is true happiness no more than the wind through our hair. One moment so real the next non existent?