Mystique

Inside the high-walled garden,

Forsythia on verge of bloom,

The recluse in robe, outside his sphere, shuffles in.

His eyes a translucent well, staring downward.

His hands together, dripping in blood, he kneels

Silently commencing prayer

Desperately attempting to erase every memory of her.

Physical love now forsaken

All his earthly possessions rendered meaningless.

I watch.

I fear not his presence.

I behold his powerful serenity.

I see my own reflection in him.

Evening befalls, with a gentle snow, soft and hushed.

In the nearby house, lights are beckoning in the windows.

He moves slowly into the cover of the forest.

Bare branches intertwined and draped in white.

Immortally

The vision he aspires to.

Holding an unwavering gaze,

He dabs his lips clean

Reading them

For the kiss that eludes him.