This is the first submission by Paul Robert Dinwiddie. Paul has always written short poems but has recently been inspired to write longer ones. I think his efforts in that were successful with this "longer" poem and, as always, your feedback is welcome. - poetheart 04/15/02
Two souls drift through time
never knowing what they'll find.
Searching for that certain something.
That ineffable quality that can't be seen.
But still knowing that it's there, it's always been.
The stars burn bright, the seasons come and go.
The trees change, and green gives way to snow.
Pure, untouched, unmarked by the passage of time.
Eddies in the currents, tributaries form streams.
Two souls drift, always wanting, they try to scream.
Silenced by those that claimed their love.
They speak, a whisper, carried by winds.
They hear, another sound, scattered as by tins.
And still they drift, searching, wanting, waiting.
The rapids are fast and the shore is near,
The bank looks safe perhaps they should steer.
With a tearful cry, they bid the shore goodbye.
Night falls, stars shine to light the way.
The current rises, they begin to sway.
Through the darkness of the night,
a single star glimmers bright.
No longer drifting, no longer waiting.
Still wanting, now they're anticipating.
The canyon closes, the waters quicken.
An oar in the water to steer their course,
And now they scream, their voices hoarse.
It's not their voice they hear this time
it's the voice they tried to find.
The canyon closes, the sky parts,
the falls loom near, it tears the heart.
A leap, a chance, the heart grows wings.
Now unfurled they catch the wind and touch the sky.
They see the voice, never longer asking why.
Two souls give distant echo of that rift,
Now it seems they'll no longer drift.
Two hearts mingle and beat as one.
Two souls tingle as they chase the one.
Two minds are separate, the thoughts are one.
The moon sinks slowly, the stars fade quietly.
The sun gives rise to the new day.
Was this all a dream, was it reality.
A whisper carried by the wind, a scent that lingers,
Dreams are scattered like fog by the suns warmth.
Yet it remains, that whisper, the echo of what they say.
Two souls now intertwined, no, it's not a dream,
it is the stuff that dreams are made when by the hearth.
A warm embrace, an gentle kiss,
they know now what is this.
Two souls drift together through time,
an oar in the water to steer sometime.
The search has ended, that quality found.
The river bends, the journey began.
The dream, perhaps it wasn't that profound.
That quality already in hand.
©2002 by Paul Robert Dinwiddie