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 ~
