How Tender Is Memory

11 Aug

There are no tender fields
where I lay my weary head,
and sleep does not find me,
’til dawn wrecks upon flesh.

My restless mind squanders,
more of amends than growth,
vain recall of my spent youth,
a rusted, unsheathed sword.

No longer wide are my eyes,
cast now only upon shadows,
‘ere at peace with doldrum,
find me now wanton of night.

Waking from sedentary haze,
the sky speaks to me, soft,
spilling in vague remittance,
’til my mind is merely silent.

Now stars have gone cold,
and sun has no reach to me,
yet, I search o’er the horizon
to but find traces of her sigh.

She had, as love ’twas fair,
spilt her ardor on my lips,
and called stars by name,
knowing night would fade.

She gave a rose, willing,
took my hand as offered,
but shed tears, the same,
as her gaze fell to mine.

She oft raged, not anger,
but ecstasy, spilt of her,
in respite, left to dream,
‘ere no sky held her down.

Morning sun upon her face
was but for her amusement,
’twas the darkness bade her,
and night, her finest dance.

Intolerant of days as wed,
she sang to me the moon,
and tho’ shied from dawn,
oft danced for dawn sake.

As years weighed on her,
she felt unworthy, held,
as bright as she burned,
faded with the same fire.

But, I now stray from her,
as but memory cannot hold,
o’er fields, now wet with dew,
mere recall of her final kiss.

And my mind, left unmade,
wanton of a kinder solitude,
yet finds peace in shadows,
‘ere I may see her soft smile.

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Posted by on August 11, 2016 in My Poetry



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