forthemayqueen
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Praise those forested eyes
As I long to climb the most.
My tides mirror the perfect size
Tenderly touching the coast.
Bitter mournings stress the dew,
With pansies of mourning delight
And posies shaded bright,
Waning souls convene the last.
For our mother of ebony sight,
The mistress of our midnight,
Where bramble emotion doth grow,
It shall dwell betwixt my lone.
Whose sedated strife sprouted with woe
Forsook the rich of thy loam.
Dreary, the bracken doth reach,
The coals of my forging love
Smolder your fortified lips.
But the fool whose refuge commends the dove,
Besought conceit to our fellowship.
The hearth now searing the crest,
Pour he the taste of charlatans
To malice my impeccable restrain.
My interstice of perception is as the dove at dusk,
But halted in terms of vain.
My pellucid psyche now poisoned
The preceptor is the bearer to lessen
My confession,
And the aggressive recollection
That reigns so freely
Competes with the virtuous violence of my future.
Now forever in solitude,
You were quondam a token of grace.
Roaming the ford of the celestial stream
And belonging in my immaculate embrace.
The dulcet hold you whilom knew,
The sun serves you,
And offers a piece of its shame.
The sea is enslaved,
And sacrifices it's wonder in your name.
The sky is your thrall,
But your hands remind me of hope;
That maybe I may grasp them, and take yours as my own.
And our wings are made of trust;
but the wind has gone, so the birds have flown.
Satan's daughter is on my shoulder;
In her hand a sword of gold.
So I'll stray into her garden,
And I'd plant the love we know.
And the moon's incoming faster,
Beatitude between us,Wove a cloak of blue.Rally the grove, Pan,Seraphim are true!Hearken, sweet Venus,And linger your love, too.At last, wed your myrtle, for a crown is lined with pearls anew.
She yells when she wantsRather, when seen fit.She treads on the flame that has just been lit.
She soothes in time,Never loosing her tune.The tides retreat, but seldom the moon.
