Of This I Write, Hope, Dream
Lying here between the folds of an uncaring sheet
A thunderous blustery evening calls me from sleep
Tracing shadows on dark walls through desperate eyes
Counting minutes on a clock’s reflective markings
Rain drips from altered eaves steadily, slowly falling
In syncopated patterns on damp grass clippings
Teasing my mind in the endless possibilities
Of what my desires, even at this hour plead
Your image finds me, still and silent
Questions come in long sentences
Breaking down dreams of distance church bells
Wondering if we truly could be, together
Will you ever find love again, could you
In the arms of one who imagines your beauty
Tastes your lips in midnight thoughts
Feels your skin on chilly twilight sighs
Of this I write, not because it is who I am
But because it is what I was meant to be
Poetically entwined, metaphorically wrapped
Draped upon your heart in phrases of collected verse
Read aloud as a smiling sun approaches
Whispering your name over the horizon’s wonder
Echoing of this affection that drains my soul
And longs to breathe you for the very first time
From my pen flows lonely ink
In lace-like frilly fonts of an italicized nature
Curling around these words penned in the dark
Hoping you see, hoping you read, hoping…………
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016
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