She is the unyielding post in the poetic mind, tall against the artist’s fears.
Of loss of mind, art mortality and never believing glory’s near.
All verses flow forth unrestrained, still tethered at her slender frame.
Happiness and tears in a creative inky flow,
Through this pen gush onto paper from our inner open doors.
She is here now, in me, embracing me,
and she is everywhere but when I am awake, is nowhere-I am awake and she is nowhere.
Her only trace is her thought in me, which makes me reel for it may never be real…
She is a mystery to me and to her.
This gentle fantasy of her makes me wonder if I’m losing it,
though the thought of her might save me now, but still, it is just not reality. But
On this paper, she is here in true art immortality.
She is always a mystery to me, and to herself, hidden from us both yet still seeming so near.
In my dreams, she is nearer…stronger, lovelier…
Maybe a deeper sleep will help see the power inside her eyes,
Glowing in the evening’s dropping light.
I feel the words flow through her unchained, from that beautifully shining mind…
I pen them down but they mean nothing if her essence is not within. I smile.
I meet her again-hair tied, lengthy-eyed,
The sinking sunbeams lighting in her smile.
She’s a mystery still, reality says as I keep writing.
She is a mystery to us both.
These words are a lovely mystery as deep as she…one I will never solve.
We sit across from one another now, in peace.
That mind and heart ever shrouded in heavy sadness and
Sweet delight in equal measure a-mixéd…
I enjoy this silence as we stare at each other, unknowing of the futures that lie beyond…
I am here.
She is here.
Still a mystery to us both, but still somehow clear.
Image Courtesy : https://w-dog.net