You glide our boat up the mystic river.
The stream that sang all day eerily quiet.
Trees that glittered in the sun, dark shapes.
Stroke by stroke, our boat ascends skyward.
You are my only warmth in the cold
And deep darkness cloaking our boat,
As I sit in the way of scattered starlight
From touching with its frozen fingers.
The wind couldn’t be more conducive of thought
The breeze that gives gentle digressions to our journey
A wayward traveller in want of company
But the boat can only carry you – and you carry me.
The darkness grows, stroke by stroke,
Encompassing all of its touring boats.
Nothing seems to evade its call –
Not even the glow of your eyes.
If anyone dare call this the end
So be it, I say.
If this indeed is one
I’ll wake up to a new tomorrow.