Last night
half waking
half sleeping in a land of legends
and misty dreams.
I saw a star, a wishing star;
so fast so bright, I had no time to wish.
Oh if only I'd had that time.
Slowly,
the minstrel fingered the unveiled harp
which he alone was mindful to fashion from her pelvic bone.
Thus, lovingly lubricated and finely tuned
he diligently plucked this instrument of his wanting
to a resounding harmonious crescendo.
Then reluctantly, hid it again from view,
safely encased in soft, white, lace.
Laying
naked amongst the discarded cards,
she watched and smiled fondly, as the juggler reached up,
grasped the silver orb, spun it effortlessly upon his finger,
then carefully placed it back
amongst the stars.
In
the fragile waxen flicker of heavenly flame
silent shadows embrace festive sounds of Yuletide carolling.
And there, there amidst the sweet odour of Benediction,
for a brief moment time stands still,
as a quick, soft, loving twilight kiss
personify's the Passion of the crucified Martyr.
I
could not see you but still I knew you to be there with me,
chasing the wind, high across the blue-belled cliffs of Sark.
Pray,
let not our love
become a Harlequinade
where two star crossed lovers promenade
behind dumb masks to serenade
ideals, which come to
nothing.
Mocking
the dark distance in between
our spirits sour, intwined in our wanting.
Admidst our precious secret thoughts the same,
we lovingly whisper each others name
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