In pale strokes of a gentle hand,
you shone upon this midnight land,
and in that light, no sullied sound was heard,
the soft timbre of your flaxen word,
eased between the lilting tones,
the shimmering light,
until in passing shades, silently,
your supple fingers slipped away,
as the cool soul of autumns night,
flows from out the giddy joy of a summers day.
A torpid slipstream of delight,
sweeping in tides, through your opalescent eyes,
a blue rimmed fire, stoked and stroked,
aflame within these skins of desire.
Alabaster shades of soft warm skin,
sinking into full flushed peaks,
entwined within a naked joy,
the dizzy dancing swirl of girl meets boy.
Doused now, within a pale moons light,
the mirrored dreams of a fading night.
Hidden behind a world of woe.
'I will not go'!, I heard you say,
soft and sweet, hallowed and low;
An echo of loves light,
a whispering vow of fateful plight;
Yet even as that breath departed,
we were eclipsed,
the sweet murmur of rose petaled lips,
fading into a shadow spun, slips,
where once had shone a great loves Sun.
Rippling through these clouds,
until all that is left of us,
left of this memory of supple ploy,
the aching sadness,
the numbing cold of winters hearth,
and the slow embers of a heartbeat,
staring dolefully skyward,
beneath the bittersweet light,
of this strawberry moon.
© Richard Michael Parker 2011