At twilight when purpled lies snow;
yours is the voice I want to hear,
saccharine this ache, when you’re near.

I’m unsure where we ought to go,
it’s oddly comforting, strange, true;
you’re as rose and I, trembling dew.

This feeling, bold, knows how to grow;
there’s no limit to dark desire,
it wraps around like cloud of fire.

Your stormy lips and pert nose, beau!
They are medicine to my veins,
I wish to explore your hills, plains.

And now, hours lie subdued and slow;
how silly it is to count cost,
a blush gained for every round lost.

At twilight when purpled lies snow;
we speak of cold, prettier woes,
watch closely, as day comes to close.

At twilight when purpled lies snow;
I’m unsure where we ought to go,
this feeling, bold, knows how to grow,
your stormy lips and pert nose, beau!
And now, hours lie subdued and slow,
at twilight when purpled lies snow.

 

 

 

Photo credits: Person Holding a Pink Rose by Viktoria Lunyakova, Pexels.

Bjorn hosts at dVerse and invites us to try our hand at a new poetic
form known as “The Constanza.” Come join us! 💝

Posted for Meeting the Bar: “The Constanza” @dVerse Poets Pub