Sitting alone in the Bohemian café,

staring down at my coffee,

it’s so dark I can hardly see my hand,

but I thought I saw your mark

that you would leave upon my soul

fifty years later.

A labyrinth of pathways,

defined by rope,

my mind’s hand skimmed along each one,

she was lost and entangled,

I guided her out.

Like GossamerThreads along the Mystic Shores,

when you reach your hand out to touch,

they disappear until the next time,

they return to remind you.

Sitting next to you at the end of Hope's Lost Road,

you seem so uncomfortable,

I feel so at home,

those Gossamer Threads sure tangled you up,

in a place I don't go,

so I gently kissed you,

your eye offered up a tear.

The sea nearly swallowed us,

as her face contorted with angst and rage,

perhaps my hand or heart,

touched her mark,

I’ll never know,

she’ll never tell.

Standing above me in the dark,

looking down in a defiant stance,

she said “I owe you nothing,”

“and nothing is what you get,”

as I drove off to never come back.

Years later from the corner of my eye,

I watched her immaculate beauty,

entertaining a man of wealth,

I would be grateful to sit next to her,

and look for the mark on her hand

You spoke to me,

in the language of a dream,

"are we finished?"

your voice whispered "no."

I've waited for you for so long,

"don't despair,"

I am the Gossamer Threads,

wrapped around your dreams.

Is there a sign for love,

written in the sand beneath our feet,

is there a mark on your hand,

and the skulls you keep.