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 ~

There Is A Beautiful Moon Tonight

 

I’ve been looking all night,

the way the sky turns

a crystal clear arctic landscape,

a frozen anatomy of

our coldest time of year,

when one could walk naked into the element

and a soft smothering of hypothermia

might bring on a quiet

a slow departure falling into fantasy

the womb of mother nature

in safe and cradled arms

underneath the blue moon,

but time is of the essence

for the rage of night fall will bring upon us all

the wolf blood moon,

and that symbolic rage

would certain find our

lonely wander.

 


~ finding my way, a personal journey ~

Trying To Find My Way

stoic rejection

A quiet exists, in reason, in heed,

yet such is the mental anguish of silence.

A man wants some center to love

while she is in balance with need.

 

He will now toward a lonely sojourn

with hope might she find some peace

along the way, a soft reminder,

a memory, an embrace, a tear.

 

Will we always wish upon desire more,

he holds a soft chuckle, a stoic cry,

for in a single minute the vacancy

affords our capacity a dream, a despair.

 

Oh, he might wish until the next moon

a spiritual conveyance of this

a thoughtful love, sweet remind

the playful nature lost in serious tone.

 

He would might the next day be gone

for the only sunrise might be her eyes


photo found on Pinterest

~ finding my way, a personal journey

for Zelda