On the end of friendship and youth

Clothed in the garb of midnight,
I wrote myself into your head,
but you, ever fixed for independance,
smiled me away and would not be led.

Your mother was a tyrant and
your father, naught but a bitter taste,
now you're searching for redemption,
for meaning, whether or not it's chaste.

Fecund imagination breeds
unholy thoughts this night,
but familial cooperation, for you,
is an unwelcome sight.

Upon the hook of crescent moon,
admist the tears of stars so bright,
I reach to hang my cloak, to stay,
yet you fade back into the night.

Forgotten times of old recall themselves to me,
to days of youthful brashness--beyond
to our anxious, foolish haste, when
hope was constant as th' light of dawn.

No more. No more,
for age and time and place
have come between;
now I see the folly of our haste.

In vain attempt to recapture youth,
I dream these quiet nights,
of jocund charms,
of low-crouching hills and subtle city lights.

In vain, in vain,
for words easily bleed off this celestial page;
reduced to nothing more than distant
stars, quiet and steady through each age.

Like Celene and Helios,
we are separate, never to meet again;
so to this age, this passing time
there is naught to say, but, 'Farewell, my friend.'