© G.V. 08-06-2012, All Rights Reserved© G.V. 07-27-2013, All Rights ReservedIambic Pentameter
Two undiluted drops, the tears she shed,
and thoughts of Spring - the birds that fled in pairs,
the dusk descended 'mid the lost affairs,
the cotton fog was dense - my only wed.
It was September then; the first of rain,
the harvest ended and the maidens passed,
persistent nimbus up in skies amassed,
- drops falling randomly to our refrain.
The maid appeared inside the rain and mist
our glances-blades to cut-and-thrust, beset
upon souls' altar sacrificial debt,
the billow lifted rainwall to desist.
Pristine, belonged to skies and months of Fall
her mind accustomed to the old vendette
rain's thrumming drops on dueling duet
revolted to our burning blood and soul.
She wore black clothes, because of lost affiance,
all hearths lost kin back in the freedom-war,
of nineteen hundred ten, and like before
our minds were set to fight - she stared askance.
I walked that night the street below her louvres,
she watched; her velvet eyes, rare beauty braw
and feral attitude were bold and wraw
while she inhaled my scent and aural oeuvre.
The moon had risen large that night and round,
untamed she came, outlined in lunar light.
Against the wall her flesh became my rite,
to carnal darkened prayer she turned on ground.
And then from molten skies, the rain began
with eyes reflecting flash, on earth she groped,
with me confessor of her sins eloped,
below the rain, her bitten lips impart.
© G.V. 07-27-2013 All rights reserved