As Soon As the Moon Has Finished Her Dance: a Love Letter
My precious jewel,
If I may begin with the moral of a wasteland of
years that is my deplorable past, having relinquished
priceless treasures for fear of opening the chest:
Fulfilment is richly attained when one dares to
live in the light of hope but only poorly imitated when
He but cowardly exists in muted assurance.
I have again awoken to this inescapable darkness,
surrounded by the frigid ness of her. She continually
mocks me with her cadaverous glow. Regret now roams
the ghostly hall that once held my soul.
As I sit here on this lonely, abandoned shore,
an obsidian sea compassionately reaches out to
caress my ageless feet; an amiable gesture indeed
but it to is cold.
Gazing across this vast charcoal stage, the dense
fog of memory mercifully lifts, revealing when last I
looked upon your heavenly face.
Ahh, Yes! I can see you now; your brilliance beaming
through lilac veils. I swear I can feel the heat of your
embrace; smell the sweetness of delicate floral
perfumes iminating from your warmth.
If only you could have promised forever.
Still, I sense her looming in the wings as the curtain
comes crashing down. Must I be denied you even in
reminiscence?
She shimmers across the ever inky apron. My ivory
Queen; her seductive dance has long since waxed
stale to my senses.
But she promised forever.
Had I understood that no promise of tomorrow was
a gift that made life most valuable, I would have absorbed
every brilliant hue of its magnificent, unpredictable
spectrum.
Had I realized that the number of my days being
locked away in mystery was an inspirational blessing,
I would surely not have bartered my soul for an although
eternal, solely bleak existence.
The whole of my presence is saturated in irony. My
fledgling desire for the safety of immortality has morphed
into a monstrous loathing fear of the same. For I am
imprisoned in my escape and my destruction will be
my ultimate salvation.
Knowing even to chance a glimpse of you begs my
surrender, it is without contrition I willingly resign
myself to it.
I will continue to play the devoted slave till she
tires and lays to rest.
Let the closing scene in this drab old musky theater
be colorful and gay, and my running to greet you be
the final recreant act.
You, my beloved Sunrise, shall be the last these
ancient eyes behold.
As soon as the Moon has finished her dance.
Until Oblivion,
The Forever Craven
Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2016
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