During my early blog reading days, I came across a few ladies who had been writing love poetry — in their forties and onward. Bemused and amused, I thought no way could it happen to me. But time moves on and perspectives change. Well, it’s still the month of February and I don’t want to miss this chance of being able to compose something that’s so close to what I may be comprised of: All feelings, a silly heart, and not much else.
Tale of the drifter, the loner… of someone who has yet to write her life certainties — barreling along an emptiness which fuels her boldness.
What future can she find in your own dreams? She’s been a prisoner for some time, shackled by a guilt pieced from her own blood.
Another lifetime can take you and her to another world, and reasons nor rhyme would flow in haste.
But love springs on her own terms, with ideals as delicate as of a nun taking her vow.
It can’t be love if there has been no pledge of faithfulness; It can’t be love if a promise of forever isn’t whispered by both hearts.
But both have become pawns from across the margins of time.
When the moon has called her back to you on a quiet evening, she begins to lace a bond that will make it all worth remembering. And you take her by the hand, you enfold her in a careful embrace, while feeling the night through the gentle demise of your own affections.