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  • neuralnomad 15w

    The light comes in flickers
    mild, light yellow spots they make
    of soothing warmth on the face
    from, in between the leaves
    as branches weave patterns obscure
    like brownish arachnids of old
    earth and grass the skin teased with
    in a mindstate, no intervals shall allow
    outbursts of trance, he lay submerged

    In rain and fog she walks
    imprints left on tainted grass
    grey thunder strikes.
    Nature beating drums of brass
    dull fading skies whisper
    to the mansion, as stands conspirer too
    she departs to some cruel fate
    in horses' hooves and carriage wheels
    echo in loops on cobblestones

    they are the silence choir
    looming message in air still
    Sent away! She's being sent away!
    to a spring when no flowers bloom
    inside an empty room, with bleeding rays
    on her face, she stands accused
    waiting, perhaps the hangman's toll
    as her coughing takes toll again
    as fears robe her short of breath
    thinks she her death, shall last all life

    outlast, her beauty, of some other kind
    not for every eye, her brown hair sways
    in the damp island gales
    like a cherries' drizzle, falling on snow
    No gorgeous crimson, a blue rose she is
    no firelace can warm, such fleshless frost
    on her features plain, yet a muse she is
    princess in grandeur, unfitting to play
    a feminine's bud, muse born to be

    such a one staring at ceaseless greens
    but close horizon as freedom's boundary line
    casteaway captive, where trembling candles burn
    and miniatures, like million mosaics' woe
    None ears turned this claustrophobe's tale
    that carnishes, in sprawling embers light

    Her footprints mark unwalked paths
    under the leafless oak, between the shrubs
    o'er meadows n hills, she takes flight
    till same dusk closes, the iron gates
    in turn unlock some Gothic realm
    inside her head, with medieval doors
    in creaking welcomes down catacombs lit
    in mystery glow, of unearthly wax
    lead way some garden, forbidden long
    has it but now, flutter of leaves
    as her heart strings do, as his too
    make a knot, a far away's bond

    why is it that, such a bad pair
    makes she, with a smile and yet
    tears become her. more any other so
    under what spell this is, tears no salt
    but sweeter is, than any lips can be
    and plain facade, no shadows make
    while her spirit overshadows all
    she runs, she runs for life
    her search fruited, though long ago
    and dragged on still, to him she goes
    as to her he call, in seeking convulsions
    under blue greyish skies, that no hour mark
    yet he calls and calls, and she hears and hears

    When finally she finds him, he lies half-dead
    unkempt haggard from fevered search
    eyes blinded from fallen beams
    of wood, blessings from burning estate
    yet he when touches she
    his cheeks, hands know her touch by heart
    once again, sweet tears abound
    yes, reunion. the Poet and his Muse
    her cherry hair, mane his dark
    under now, the blossoms pink

    #writerstolli #writersnetwork #poetry #lovepoetry #poetstale #poetslife #love #mirakee #mirakeeworld @writerstolli @mirakee @mirakeeworld @twt_official
    image credits - My name is Sara by Steven Oritts

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    A Muse's Tale
    (an epic of new)