Once after every fortnight, while I reason, in shades of white,
over queries that seem to plague a burning heart—
there shines from among the clouds, a hint of a titian moon,
“oh, you’re here,” I whisper, peering out the window,
“there is a world out there, gesturing to my warrior soul—
my story is much too complex to be told.”

Oh, explicitly I remember it was in bold November;
as each breath thawed these fingers cold—
his eyes, in realm of unkindness, raised softer sighs,
from the depths of diaries there bloomed few odes—
for rare and reticent male whom the angels adore—
unnamed here for evermore.

Much I marveled upon his manner of speech,
every quote he uttered seemed to hush sweet lips,
as waves of perfume, hyacinth, camellia and rose
spread promises of a night less dour and morose—
gift me moments true until these eyes have closed—
sustain fair distance against wily foes.

Once after every fortnight, while I reason, in shades of white,
and piece out woes that seem to derange the heart—
there shines from among the clouds, a hint of a titian moon,
“I knew you’d be here,” I whisper, and stand by the window,
“there is a world out there, gesturing to my warrior soul—
my story is much too complex to be told.”

 

 

 

 

Photo credits: Renatures.com

Posted for ‘Sunday Mini-Challenge’ @ Real Toads

and posted on the ‘Poetry Pantry’ @ Poets United