With Apologies to Alfred Lord Tennyson

And so, I scream "Alack!"

"Tennyson, our friend is gone."

Where he stood only black

Emptiness, vacuum; so wrong.

Laureate, rector's son,

“Real truth is found in doubt.”

Spinoza offers none,

Nor what his search was about.

From the dimness, a voice,

Here am I, a youth at heart.

No visage, not my choice,

Darkness, camouflage; Depart!

She is seeing through me,

And I am what she perceives.

Just invisibility

Is all that you can conceive.

Then, a bright, distant light,

A shimmer through trees, calling.

I, too often, affright,

Too many fears, more stalling.

What plight worse than this state,

No hope, no love, no being?

Yet she illuminates,

Her light, her gift, foreseeing.

She knows before I know,

She sees before I can see,

She wants, but not this beau,

Her future better than me.

Drawn, I walk to the light,

Like a moth to a candle.

Avoid Icarus’s plight,

Affections to mishandle.

Just bask, warmth, comfort, love,

Sleep, dream, lying carefully,

And there I scream "Alack!"

"Tennyson, our friend is home.