I was sitting under the Sigillaria Tree.
For I have been set free,
So I scream with glee!
While the stitching made me bleed.
I am forced to concede.
Forced my arms to my chest,
And I hold me close with no rest,
For I am trapped in this stitched arm unrest,
I am the court jester.
Such words hear me prester!
I have only one question so please foresee,
What will happen to me?
Categories:
prester, anxiety, dark, pain,
Form: Free verse
I had supposed all this was closed to me.
The age of miracles was long since gone,
no wisp of wonder left to dwell upon.
I had assumed that I was doomed to be
leaf-litter underneath a winter tree,
about as in-demand as Prester John,
as of-the-moment as the mastodon,
all middle age and mediocrity.
I ache to watch her putting up her hair,
alone before the mirror, unaware:
I love the God-sent perfume of her skin,
the olive oval of that perfect chin,
the way she graces, not just sits upon, a chair.
She came, that life-in-earnest should begin.
Categories:
prester, romantic,
Form: Sonnet