What's Missing

A scarlet sunset, wistfully I think of
Golden air, and the sound of laughter.
The dream of a broken heart,
In the sight of what's missing.

Dark binding bitterness, looming perilously,
Casting shadows of suppression and regret,
Tearing at the heart, mauling the mind,
The silent boast of what's missing.

But few care to listen.

The hand of a man,
looks to console, looks to conciliate.
But blindly it moves,
with an eye only for itself.

Patience it needs, heartlessness it takes,
The question of time wasted.
The hand grasps, straining,
Calls out, writhing.

But none can hear, none can hear.

Mellow and melancholy,
The hand moves dispassionately,
Uninterested in that which once held its' full attention,
Pondering whether it fate or curse that stole what's missing.

The sunset comes and goes, unnoticed, untold.
The man considers what exactly it was he lost,
Alas, not even he knows,
In the sight what's missing, what's missing.