When the clock strikes thirteen . . .

If the colour of your eyes is a mystery to me, then I
Can only ask the question, and expect no
Answer other than a smile.
If your hair swings across your eyes when you move
Your head, I can no longer ask the question
Because there is no answer to be given.
Allow me, allow me, holding out my hand, to
Walk with you for perhaps on mile.
Your words spin and drift into the sky, and
There they shatter and splinter, and break
Into one million fragments that slowly
Float back down to earth.
And all I do is question, and listen
And watch to see if there is an answer.
There is no answer left, they have all
Been used up and the remains swept into
A pile in the corner of the room that
Does not exist.
It used to exist but is there no longer,
This room has no door but it has four windows
That look out over the restless ocean and
Call the lonely man back to the mountain.

© 2ndwitch, 10/10/14