That most tantalizing of delicacies,
Hanging there, within reach, thy grasp too short,
A longing…aching…wishing for that which can be seen,
But not yet quite reached.

The times that teach us the most,
The precious peach to which we cling,
Always there,
Ever present,
Forever tempting,
Never attainable.

The splash of dazzling brilliance against the darkness,
The smooth flow of that last drink through the ethereal passages,
Always something better,
A knight shining brighter.

With a wicked scorn,
And a feeling of not just loss,
but betrayal bourne on the wind,
A leopard dancing under the moonlight,
Flecks of quartzite whispering to the evening pines.

Within these moments,
The pines stand still,
And beckon forth a most momentous tune.

They ask but the littlest of things,
And to embrace their glory takes no more than a moment.
But in those moments,
The claws tear at the fleshy innards,
Exposing the metallic bits to the world to see.

Where within these erroneous metaphors does truth lie?
And where within the twisted vines of chaos does happiness begin, and the sadness end?

The glorious pines, weeping their sap,
The cuddling embrace of a thousand branches,
Wherefore for thou in the morn will this torture end?