When She Danced

When she spoke of our last summer,
there was a sweet melody in her eyes,
as if the gods had fashioned her music,
and stood in ardent awe to see her dance.

When she spoke of our kiss goodbye,
there was a single tear upon her cheek,
as if, with her regret, she knew better,
yet still she cried for our lost romance.

When she spoke of our love and life,
there was a grasping in her last breath,
as if she alone had stilled the moment,
and with her hands, caressed the air.

When she spoke of our last night sleep,
there was a kind of somberness of words,
as if ’twas the only time she felt at peace,
and in her eyes, my comfort waited there.

 

A Finality

How far I have travelled,
tho’ without a destination,
merely a rogue respondent,
with brief pauses of respite.

How long I have ventured,
and with total submission
to the foray allayed to me,
as each dawn came to light.

How much I have been moved
by vast wonders I have seen,
tho’ in the strangest of regions,
and of the visions in my mind.

How soft I have been played
by such goddesses and nymphs,
touched by their varied beauty,
and left resilient by their kind.

How infinite in song, my love,
to all those who’ve come before,
and to those I’ve lost to madness,
or in their dying, held their hands.

How bravely I go on each day,
ne’er showing scars or wounds,
yet in struggled, daily conscience,
only this aged heart understands.

How soundly I sleep, at last,
from nothing, shall I e’er awaken,
’tis the only true respite I’ve had,
let me sleep, let me have breath.

How vastly I am lost to dreams,
as of ancient realms in quietus,
this bed of earth does comfort me,
and I’m finally complete in death.

 

An Allotment

To quip with wit as bold,
to perry stain as cold,
to jibe with pride as gold,
to banter thought as old;
the words then play as told.

 

The Art Of Why

For pity sake, I must allude
to sorrow, to valor, or to cry;
tho’ wording not of true etude,
yet knowing only I must try.

For solace sake, I must be bold,
to fill the silence, the art of why;
words spilt well as tales are told,
breathing only this vein to sigh.

For reason sake, I must admit
to sorrow, to joy, to live and grow;
tho’ words may not be adequate,
’tis scribing them may make it so.

For ardent sake, I pen each word,
to dream of things I do not know;
tho’ these thoughts may be absurd,
for comfort sake, I let them show.

 

Having Come This Far

Vita – having come this far,
unwept and unstructured;
part sullen, but oft staid,
tho’ teasingly fettering
thru’ the mildest of moods;
with an enclave kept well,
as made available to me,
and my manner yet serene,
ne’er banal, nor intrusive;
that I, impassioned rogue,
find solace in the present,
thus, having come this far,
now know the reasons why.

 

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Sharing yet another wonderful work by a beautiful poetess… (please click on link to read.)

Restless – http://wp.me/s6MOqf-restless

 

How Sweet The Air

Pray you now, sweet air of sunlight,
chase you now these clouds away,
that love may find me justly bright,
and lead my heart in quietus play.

Pray, let not my love be too bold,
nor be it too shy to wed the day,
lest it be too unyielding to hold,
nor feign in words I dare not say.

Let sweet air fall from summer sun,
and without malice, be mine today,
let breath of sigh now come undone,
and feast on this air in sweet array.

O’, brave you now, sweet sunlit air,
fill my lungs with breathless fray,
that with your tender time and care,
I breathe your notions while I may.

Sweet winded breeze, come ye wild,
‘ere find me ‘neath this sheltered stay,
unleash my soul and my inner child,
for, as errant knight, I seize the day.

 

For These Reasons

If I love too deeply,
it is for longing to stay.

If I move too swiftly,
it is for knowing my way.

If I err too falsely,
it is for lack of trying.

If I breathe too vastly,
it is for you in sighing.

If I leave too bravely,
it for you to follow.

If I cry too softly,
it for lack of sorrow.

If I fall too deftly,
it is for reasons I’ve said.

If I live to boldly,
it is for comfort when dead.

 

In Need Of Rain

To love without tears
is as spring without rain;
to love is but to cry,
whether pleasure or pain.

No desire e’er be sated,
for its purpose is plain;
that we are but wanton,
‘ere it leaves us insane.

‘Tis human to have need
of passion and its stain;
the drive of that hunger,
‘ere desire must remain.

For when want is sated,
e’en love begins to wane;
tho’ content, we still desire,
as the sky in need of rain.

 

Feign

Feign, thy stead, once wan, now bitter,
feign in thy heart and breath of stain;
bid thee not this acid lie of thy repose,
bold in thy words from demon tongue,
vicious is but cast this vain sullen hue
as tarnish upon thy once gilded breast;
recall then that thou was once a god,
but spiteful tongue hath thee wounded,
‘ere none reach, but thy shallow caress;
now feign erodes, and vanity, its vessel,
and thy world has lost its colored array.