Countess
11-02-2005, 06:04 PM
Dedicated to that beautiful Elf. This is only part of the poem but it is stand-alone:
He rises with eyes shot wide
like sultry summertime in June
craving the rush of rain,
the raging river of Autumn's harvest,
all dressed in glittery gold
and darker days, those rays shine less
though not distressed,
it's just another shift in mood.
Galloping, Galloping, Galloping
into the neverworld of my reality
shimmery sunsparks catch flight
on his face, an eye or a cheek,
(his beauty speaks freely)
broken into a million pieces
by the falling leaves
Blackout.
Seems like a crime, a sin, or a vicious lie
to pitch black on white, to fracture
pure perfection with frilly vines
or bright sunlight.
Though many would disagree
man is beauty's greatest achievement
her proudest fare, for if she'd
preen on green or flickering fall
she'd truly be fraudulent.
She knows it too, for his is the fairest hue,
tendered winter white with red roses
and a slip for lip - oh that gorgeous lip! -
a red crescent cast high in the sky
for us to see but not to reach.
Were I to die, let me die lingering
on these lips, having savored
the full flavor of their soft innocence,
their buttery caresses; pray time collapses
before the moment passes.
But enough. Too much time
spent on poorly constructed rhyme.
(Back to our story.)
Where are you going young elf,
and have you now heard?
Did that small blackbird carry
you the message on its wing?
He rises with eyes shot wide
like sultry summertime in June
craving the rush of rain,
the raging river of Autumn's harvest,
all dressed in glittery gold
and darker days, those rays shine less
though not distressed,
it's just another shift in mood.
Galloping, Galloping, Galloping
into the neverworld of my reality
shimmery sunsparks catch flight
on his face, an eye or a cheek,
(his beauty speaks freely)
broken into a million pieces
by the falling leaves
Blackout.
Seems like a crime, a sin, or a vicious lie
to pitch black on white, to fracture
pure perfection with frilly vines
or bright sunlight.
Though many would disagree
man is beauty's greatest achievement
her proudest fare, for if she'd
preen on green or flickering fall
she'd truly be fraudulent.
She knows it too, for his is the fairest hue,
tendered winter white with red roses
and a slip for lip - oh that gorgeous lip! -
a red crescent cast high in the sky
for us to see but not to reach.
Were I to die, let me die lingering
on these lips, having savored
the full flavor of their soft innocence,
their buttery caresses; pray time collapses
before the moment passes.
But enough. Too much time
spent on poorly constructed rhyme.
(Back to our story.)
Where are you going young elf,
and have you now heard?
Did that small blackbird carry
you the message on its wing?