Antique Restoration

As sand continues down the funneled glass
And buries all beneath its steady flow,
It drowns all memories good, and ill regrets,
And grinds them down to barest grain below
The sticky stains we've slathered on to seal
Mistakes into the past—leaving
Naked wood to build upon anew.

How can I make disjointed thoughts align
To craft a message whose conflicting parts
Share only good intent—no sense malign
Nor promise false or strangled hope on either
Side? I spy no way to cross this span:
No words, no plan, no scheme, no possibility
Of love returned, no friendship (weak
And insufficient by contrasting weights—
So torture, truly, would it be, since there's)
No hopes, no trust, no dreams, no honored path,
No malice, no revenge, pretense nor pride
Nor anger, wisdom nor advice...all's stripped
To rawest element, left vulnerable,
Naked, and exposed.

How glorious a sentiment to share...except for un-
Requited heart's exposure's just as awkward and
Indecent exhibitionism as perverted bodily display!
And nothing's span can cover it; but love.

This ill-directed passion! How can nonfecund
Emotion thrive so potently?
What use this endless spring, with no one t'give
Its drink? What purpose suits its purity,
If poison 'tis to me? Its quandary leaves
Me thirsting dry with nought to staunch its flow.