The path He Chose to Walk

Tomorrow looks the same as the shadows left in wake,
the furture holds no hope,
the past is dreary in its waiting,
but forward is an empty path,
lined with dead trees long forgotten,
with the ravens that haunt me so,
cawing, craving, showing but not telling,
leaving me with holes,
of the touch of another,
so wanted, so near,
yet clouded by the images they see,
and divided by the fire in my eyes,
and the ones who sit among each other,
and the path beside,
so straight, unwinding,
unlike my own that I have chosen,
unlike the one he walks,
and I walk alone,
with the ravens circling above,
and fires burning below,
and the longings,
oh, the longings,
to walk with but another,
with eyes that entrap the things of night,
with their saddened image,
a mirror of myself,
yet cracked, and shattered,
upon the side of the trail,
that I can not walk,
if not for another that calls for me,
that I can not follow to,
and he can not walk my path,
for devour him it would,
so the ravens mock me,
showing but not telling,
of the path he chose to walk.