Poetry.
The well worn track.
Two morphs into one,
an individual memory.
one of pure love.
Not understood,
seemingly forced,
by the wrong time to be born.
Too many factors,
too much annoyance;
the great separator of truth.
How often does this happen?,
love forced apart,
by society's eyes.
Their separate lives was normality,
warmed by so much more,
a family shared.
Many memories,
I sit alone in,
and remember with great fondness.
Green hair, purple hair,
caused by different sources,
but makes me smile.
The wanderer was just that,
trapped in a web,
desperate for freedom.
Known are both,
as they produced a hybrid,
sharing both qualities.
Neither one or the other,
but part of both,
a new path is walked.
Weary is the constant tread,
looking for different paths,
those not walked before.
The nurturer of all,
passed seven months later,
forty years apart.
He couldn't open his eyes,
she never closed hers,
yet the bond never died.