Sublime

He walks silently from room to room,
Knocking about with nowhere to go.
She doesn’t love him, he can only assume.
No longer speaking, he can’t really know.

Stocked by ghosts of the past, future on hold,
Hunting the possible what-might-have-been,
His shadow falls flat on the floor, cold,
Chilled by the spirit of his latest sin.

Quiet time brings emotional meditation —
Tumbling, spilling outward, uncontrolled,
Without a meaningful line of direction.
Nothing in life to which to cling or hold.

These things must be preordained.
Recorded in the great book, the one of all time.
Mind-breaking and soul-numbing pain.
Loss of love, the meaning too sublime.