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.

Waking With Purposeful Shades

ED7977C5-FF18-44BE-A5BB-B92A19E732BB.jpegI don’t wish to see the light

only the shadow

of my quiet reality

me and my animal now

her eyes

just love

no agenda drawn

a quiet wonder of some seeming

loyalty

not feigned

no imagination

just silent breathing

waiting

perhaps there is wonder

yet she will

always know

always be

always … awaiting me

always she may trust my presence

always here.

A Quiet

there is a silence

felt while in the midst

a populace

simply unknown

forever in a solemn wander

wishing to be found

perhaps

or might we journey

further

inside a myriad of wonder

alone.

 

~ 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