He thought her too beautiful
to be touched;
and so he kept her at a distance – only
imagining the love they shared was real.
His focus kept her too, imprisoned -
as if in webs of gossamer illusion,
fancying a fragileness that never
was the truth – and yet for her, perhaps
the strongest of illusions of them all.
For she had lived her many
within an innocent endurance
of individuality; and all she was became
an opening out into herself again.
She blossomed in the night, just as
he slept and lost his hold on her,
and yet he never understood those
sleepless nights of hers; when starlight
sang into her veins and mystery became
so purely – essence.
The moon and stars would echo
in a forever of melodious strings that played
with all the feeling of pure soul - gleamingly
enticing her to fly still yet upon another ray
of living light. Her task, her fate, her destiny :
to write it all into a poignant point of history.
Not dry or mute – less feeling,
but rather a resounding ecstasy
of all emotions’ greatest imagery
found only in a love of all reality
unfolding mistily within an ever
waking dream of all tomorrows.
He loved her true, but somewhere
a seed of jealousy had grown, unknown;
for he had never delved in depth into
himself alone. From there, a blame
just entered in, as the rooting stem
of just one seed grew on and up in him.
The guilt and shame produced
ominously close, as he strove to mend
the damage he had done; yet still he
tried to hold her there in his imagination;
never dreaming that these dreams
he dreamed of holding her were coming true.
How fragile now, its beating
as his shards of porcelain explode
again into her ever-living heart...
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...