by Marc Lionhart11 Jul 2013
I retreat my face, take my memories back to that better place, where they stay, where they play like birds, never have I heard a song of such beauty as her.
She is the water that stirs, I am the island. Never will she die, for she has become immortalised. A friend to the sun as it chooses to rise.
Captivated by the love I have met, a friend to the sun when it is compelled to set.
I don’t confess a thing, but feeling any less than the punitive sting of her prevailing caress
The ode of my derailing mind pays homage to a falling demise.
Cry as I might, I am touched at the notion of this proverbial flight. The one we fight for.
Aren’t we all falling onto hard ground? Searching for the notion of that beautiful sound.
My head turns cold, when I am left with nothing in darkness to hold.
Corrected clichés make for adverse conflict of verse.
This was something I had known for ever, hanging onto futile purity by a thin tether.
I won’t be torn away from the idea of eternal day, where the light refuses to fade.
The birds still play, in need of no flame.
Her flame is enough. Mark my words her flame is enough.
I am the singer, with the birds I am the bell-ringer, no longer the bringer of an un-rendered limitless surrender.
I only wish for a return to the bright recess that was unwoven underneath a sublime mess.
Lift me onto your wings, I wish your gift of the little things would alone remove me from the mist.
But I grow weary. I feel I need this light to steer me clear from the whispers I hear at night. Her voice is naturally clearer than my own sight.
I question beauty and its morals. Will it rest on its laurels after it creates my restless embrace? Seems I am fooled once again. One of many men.
Between myself and my aggressive pacifist fists I counter her enticing appeal with a level of yielding love.
What broken man am I? If at all, a broken down lie.
Turn me down or touch me I force sounds from her mouth with my passion.
She is woven from silk and dare I be in the presence of her eyes?
No. Not this time.
It seems irrelevant to align the planets with resolute verse of rhyme, or entertain you with a cascade of these words of mine.
I need no sign, her smile is fine.
Amelia, I am in the gutter. Amelia, are you there?