I am not a poet,
To write it I'd have to know it
I understand
That blasphemy calls
From turquoise beaches of golden sand
And canopies of mid-state oaks.
Rustling branches amidst a folly
Only I know.
And beyond there are a few roads,
Each to a different cardinal from where I stand,
A crossroads.
Could I? Should I?
Perhaps not, but why so?
Imagine my life, or what may be left of it -
with a golden love only my own,
And every star in her eyes -
Ten years, perhaps, or maybe less to spend,
It does not matter.
Oh, I can see it now.
Ocean storms in her irises
And images of the sun over a calm blue horizon.
Golden strands in her brunette hair,
Even Aphrodite would wish for.
Sweetest bells in her laugh
That every siren would **** for,
But of course she would be sweet and strong,
Kind with a lion's heart.
As I cover what's left of the small tin box,
A rustling I hear behind me.
Branches crunching and shaking, now I see it is dusk,
I look to the water below and see a fine mist above the water,
This is almost like the night she left me.
A large gust of wind blows through my hair and
Her laugh is all I hear next.
I fall, quivering, sobs shaking me as I go,
Looking up once more.
She stands, watching me from a thick brush along the shoreline,
And blows me a last kiss before my eyes close.
*Adrienne
