Carol Richard Weyler | + Follow Poet |
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Faithful

Cobalt storms; not azure skies,
       predict changing seasons.
      Vague ambiance of lies,
       waltz with fated reasons.
      So tug upon the corners,
       try to veil the smile.
      Gather all ye mourners,
       weep for her awhile.
      
      He knows that she flows,
       rivers channel deep.
      But ocean's floor below,
       caress his troubled sleep.
      Golden pair; wounded dreams,
       silently entreat.
      Moments slide between the screams,
       stranded in the heat.
       
      She can't draw inside the lines,
       of howling winds deranged.
      And up ahead; ominous signs,
       the  highway looks so strange.
      But he can  hold her brave will;
       in his hands so tenderly,
      not even strong enough to still,
       his mind she cannot free.

      He is the lust to breathe and fly;
       his wings stay unused,
       within her voice; an angel's sigh,
       but the melody, confused.
      When questions birth insanity,
       saline begs for more.
      But he can only hear and see,
       the vision behind the door.

      And he will toss; and he will turn,
       until his eyes are bright.
      But in the loss of orgasmic burn,
        the other sighs in the night.
      He cannot wait; the world is open,
       quiet, he leaves the bed.
      Heart is faith; pulse is broken,
       but his soul must be fed.

      With trembling hands; he gasps to feel,
        her curves and body light.
      Silken strands and he must kneel,
         to deliver here  tonight.
      He hears soft cries; for all too soon,
        the other is in  pain.
      As his soul dies; behind the moon,
        denying need again.
      
      Have you ever had to choose,
        one over the other?
      And you knew that you would lose,
        giving up one lover?
      Life is a composition,
        he strives to hear the source.
      He must create;  orchestrate,
        passion is the  force.

      When you read this piece of art,
        you may think me wrong.
      But I've heard the rhythm of this young man's heart,
        and the music keeps him strong.
                  
      As he grows closer to his wife,
        it's the stuff dreams are made of.
      But from now til the end of  his life,
        he's alive in  guitar love..

Copyright © Carol Richard Weyler | Year Posted 2011

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