If She Might Ever Know

It will be only she

my mystique

her muse

I listen to a soft cello

in sad tears in the background

they cry out her notes

of waning despair,

I wonder if she might ever  know

will only be her.

 

Oh I’m told I have a flirt

in my body,

there is a smile

a curvaceous sometime

appeal come playful

that is apparent

in the light of day,

in a quiet darkness,

yet there is no one

causes me such

passion to want to please

then her,

when near me

I might again find her eyes

under a blue moon,

and together we could play

with the music of our lives.

 

How is it possible

that in a world of similar

being, pattern, lifestyle

that a singular moment

would create

such a yearn

that would swallow any other

massive audience of similarity,

so that this one

audience

would be our own

soft and passionate, our quiet,

our silent,

heart and soul.

 

It is she whom I cry for, I muse,

I lose my direction apart her mystique.

 


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

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