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Love Letter From the Soul Lxii

M,



"If a tree falls in the forest, and no one is around, does it still make a sound?"

the sound akin 

a honey bee
guarding her hive

alive

with tiny wings 
not letting
not forgetting
anyone 

shan't slip on by

the dance 
floors tapped
mouths taped
trapped
together

as shuffles brush the polish
illuminating 
off the dwellings
of her naked floor

resound 
praise

a knock upon the door

echoes
chambers

on knee

begetting

soul
deepened in pools of green
a serenade 
the world hath never seen

inside

growing rings 
wrapped upon a tree
beginnings 
blooming

branch reaching branch
two entrance
eye to eye

we climb, we climb

worlds escape 
eclipsing to be free
passed in between 
intrigue 
allure, amoré
attracting
moments evermore

a tongue, a key
a Bee
ever free

loveromanticism

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Maurice Yvonne

January 21, 2021 at 11:21 PM

Brilliant. A Fav.

Lady Labyrinth

January 17, 2021 at 1:41 PM

"....a tail, a sting...? Bees are not all sweet but fierce; wouldst thou contemplate a tree that falls, dost bleed; the sound of all the forest creatures, clawing to be heard around its falling leaves - the sweetest diabolical cacophony drinking dewdrops from its pure ne'er bitter nectar. They, drunk on all their stories, each retold on fragile barks, in their comforting uncomfortable minds drunk now in solitary silence, look for love - or some meaningful recompense that has been withheld. It is a certainty they look for Love, through vagrant means, some dally in their conscience revenge, or lust...releasing new little freedoms from the prisons of their hearts and minds, 'tis there, their abject souls are let loose to redefine - but most assuredly they look for Love. Like fallen trees the creatures will be heard. Sadness and Joy, both come with Love."

Lady Labyrinth

January 17, 2021 at 1:08 PM

I fear thy lord, thou hast been at the mead that bees suck on ...again. "That will ask some tears in the true performing of it: if I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split.

Lady Labyrinth

January 17, 2021 at 1:09 PM

The raging rocks And shivering shocks Shall break the locks Of prison gates; And Phibbus' car Shall shine from far And make and mar The foolish Fates. This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is more condoling."

Lady Labyrinth

January 17, 2021 at 1:09 PM

"I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us: but I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale." visions from Bottom and a dream ....regards, Kate.