A Winter's Longing
Wax candles are kindled by men at nightin serene separation from pure whim
that lavish ladies with husbands of spite
savour in a delicate ballroom prim,
intricate in webs of dramatic slight:
the thorned rose of nobles’ eternal hymn.
Piercing ice of winter’s mourned seclusion
led my doleful soul to such conclusions.
Orchestral strings punctured silent scandals,
roguish couples dispersed from dressing rooms.
O’, if in anguish I were a vandal,
in dancing inferno this ball would bloom!
Chilled air slices thoughts, quenching near candles,
From behind, oak doors open— a guest whom,
in youthful fashion, is unbound by time.
Two hours late! And still, to me he chimes:
“Sir! Please help me remove my overcoat,”
Unclouded, I do. Warmth on stone is cast,
snowbound touch recedes; his calm glare wrote
fervour into earth’s mouth, joy unsurpassed.
Dishevelled, honey hair framed his eyes’ note.
Through him, the stars’ canto may everlast.
God will remember that Thursday we met,
nor will the angels cease to sing our set.
Plum blossoms shrivel, rose seeds fail to grow,
the world could freeze in sin's despondent act;
yet God would deliver, for he must know
your presence’s worth his creation lacked.
Notions consume reason. Beloved, lo!
Revelation quakes when our eyes transact.
Tongue betrays notions. Corduroy now straight,
I'd be left alone under God's marbled gate.
“I am sure the ladies will want to dance,”
flames reflect frenzied fret in my laughter.
Smiling, he silences the strings. Financed
by bliss, he snickers over proud chatter.
Crimson permeates princely face, enhanced
by Venus’s visage, Apollo’s after.
“I am not here for women,” He amends,
as from his coat pocket his hand extends.
Jun. 07, 2021
the path forward seems to go back,
the direct path seems long,
true power seems weak,
true purity seems tarnished,
true steadfastness seems changeable,
true clarity seems obscure,
the greatest art seems unsophisticated,
the greatest love seems indifferent,
the greatest wisdom seems childish.
