We stand on some corner somewhere,
the aroma of your spells in the air.
The mist settles upon stones,
every evening, every morn’
and the phantoms continue to stare.
Your hand is in mine and I dream
fantastical, miraculous things.
What God has my favor
that I might have that which I savor?
What karma has misplaced its laced seams?
That life in my heart blooms and spills,
but my fear wells and burns that I’ll wilt.
I feel as I if am that woman
I am chained in this silvery silt.
I fear more than death a repeal,
that I’ll lose what I’ve had this past year.
A whispery veil
fell as sharply as hail
guiding views rosy blue of so dear.
I hold his hand in a grasp
reliving every moment thrice before it’s past.
A prince on his steed, and I am but lesser breed.
Little more than a maid of outcast.
The beauty held chained by a beast,
or girl scarred by scalpel, at least.
He cannot see
that girl others know of me,
but I see what I must in this sea.
I temper no blade to shimmer bright
that he may not see mirror in respite.
I fear I may never be
that woman he sees in me.
Just some rose born of shadow rather than light.