Green Spanish Eyes - Part 3

Continued from Part 2 Ah Consuela! I’m watching as lightning at midnight in green Spanish eyes kindles cracks within crystals like flashes from pistols                  residing inside of the gloom as it hovers above us betraying a dove as                  she flees from the fountain of doom. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, distilling despair in her green Spanish eyes, and the bitterness stings like the snap of the strings                  when a mystical  mandolin sighs as the vampire shades suck the life from charades                  neath the resinous residue skies. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the ledge with her green Spanish eyes, for the terrace hangs high and she’s thinking to fly                  and abandon fate’s merry-go-round. At the edge I perceive her and rush to retrieve her –                  she stumbles, falls far to the ground. Ah Consuela! I’m watching the sparkles a’ spilling from green Spanish eyes. As I peer from the railing, with evening exhaling,                  I cry out a lover’s lament – there she lies midst the crowd with her spirit unbowed,                  but her body’s all broken and bent. Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she beckons me hither with green Spanish eyes, and I’m slightly amazed being snared in her gaze                  and a’ swirl in a hurricane way, but the seconds are slipping, my courage is dripping,                  the moment is bleeding away. Ah Consuela! I touch her - she weeps tender tears from her green Spanish eyes; as the breezes cease blowing, her essence leaves, flowing,                  in streams neath the ambient light, and the droplets drip swarming, so silent, yet warming,                  like rain in a midsummer night. Ah Consuela! I hold her, am hushed by the hints in her green Spanish eyes, while her whispers are breathing the breaths of the seething                  electrical skeletal winds, and the words paint the poems that rivers a’ slowin’                  reveal where the waterfall ends. Ah Consuela! I’m fading in fires a’ flicker in green Spanish eyes, as she plays back the past, she abandons and casts                  away matters that no longer mend.            .                   . And she reached out instead, as she lifted her head,                  and we kissed as she parted, my friend.            .                   .                           . Ah Consuela! I’m tangled, entombed, trapped in tales of your green Spanish eyes, in forsaken cantinas beyond the arenas                  where night-time illusions once flowed, for the ash neath my shoulder still throbs as it smoulders                  some place near the end of the road. End