She intones the sad words,
Rhythmically, she claps
her hands;
As an air of dignified
humility pours out of her plea;

Her eyes glimmer like the moon,
While her insides shimmer like
summer moon;
But the honeyed kiss, the lips of mine
and fire fade blissfull into the distant
years of yonder;

She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
She is the luggage no one will claim,
The out-of-place turd all deny
Responsibility for;
Yet, her tears still burn at mine handcuffs;

As shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the
sound;
She rings her sweet bells
But they say, let them be farewells;
O sing us the songs, the songs of our own
hero
You wabling ladies in white;

To these she turns, in me she trusts,
To mine blind power she makes appeal,
She guards her beauty clean from rust;
She spins and burns and loves the air,
And splits a skull to wine my praise,
But up the nobly marching days
She glitters naked, cold and fair.

Out in the blustering darkness
I find delight;
As prison birds must find in freedom;
Between the begetting,
and the forgetting,
in memory lies life;

I am now very high upon the tree of the
seasons;
Far below I see the firm earth of the past
But in me she has buried her longings.

© Danny the Writer