The Well of Tender Moorings
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"The Well of Tender Moorings"
Deep as the coolest deep dark well
Seeking sanctuary in thy fathomless ocean,
The immaculate buoyant waters of thy untamed soul
I lie between thy corporeal shoulder blades and muscles
Bathed in thy efflorescence, the luminous white light and velvet safe domain
Of thy majestic wings
Naked as a Blue Bird sings.
Mineth arms and forks tightly clasp thy burning golden torso
Deep, much deeper, sloweth not festinate, festinate not sloweth,
Hover for a while
in the sweet lodging base.
We art co-joined, never stopping, never parting, onward we wend.
We traverse deeper and deeper into the well, this thy heart
thy enshielded world. Be this up or down? Befuddled direction,
I hast lost mineth own way, I can nay longer discern,
in this thy enshielded world of fey
A deep endless portal, mineth own mind doth feverishly swingeth and sway,
Mineth own beloved Immortal, thou of the fey.
I kiss the wet nook of thy neck,
Drops of sorrow of joy and guilt doth thou caterwaul
Thou who is't ne'er wilting ne'er caterwauling,
Armour divested the entire way, discarded an aeon fore story told.
Doth thee flyeth or falleth? Knoweth thou this, thou art far from distant peaceful shores -
Too late 'tis arrived, The Lover’s Kiss.
Onwards we flyeth, we falleth, blissfully into the heavenly, dark and deep Abyss.
Daughter of Eve? What 'tis that, thou exclaims?
I am a mere mortal?
I thinketh not, be'est thou sorely mistak'n!
Mineth own beloved Immortal -
I hath been caught up in thy fierce Tray-Trip Tempest Tryst.
Deeper, Deeper falling forever still, to what I can nay say.
Hark! Hear the resounding distant sound? Hush your beating wings!
That sound cans't thou not hear it? 'tis most disconcerting -
All churches art ringing deep red bells,
Holy water dripping off slickened skin, ruffled feathers glisten
Long time past the Chalice hast been broken and thrown hence,
Rosary beads, pearls torn and busted slipping into ether,
all reason gone astray
Deeper, much deeper, hearts ne'er still
still beating, still breathing
what is left of my soul begot of this lusty journey
bound to mineth own Immortal, bold and ornery.
A scorching love burns all night, all day.
We art riding Destiny on the moist winds of an unsafe,
petulant storm, Chastity blown hence
Legions of Angels, Choirs surrounding singing warning knells.
Couldst this be'est of joy and excitement?
Woe beholdeth the day! We art one but flying the wrong way!
This be no well, this upside down world be some strange portal, for we art
now travelling towards the ever burning bright Golden White Light Sun.
I am Circe, not Miranda
My lover, mineth own sweet Immortal.
The guardian soldier, he doth not cry, but sings!
I feel great pain, for from between my blades
sprouts feathery foreign bewitched 'tween veil things
for my Immortal hast gifted me freedom feathers
from broken dreams and torn golden strings.
I have sprouted angelic wings, with our feet on holy ground
in this land of Tender Moorings.
“All hail”, caterwaul the Legion of Angels –
“Thou has't in thy heart, our God’s beloved Warrior, Michael,
the most powerful and wondrous of all the Archangels”.
(Lovejoy-Burton/Mar 2018)
“This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.”
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
“I might call him A thing divine, for nothing natural I ever saw so noble.”
William Shakespeare, The Tempest
1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circe
2. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Michael_(archangel)
3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Miranda_(The_Tempest)
4. "Circe Invidiosa", John William Waterhouse completed in 1892.
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
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