Memory: Where the Dead Remain Alive
Her name hailed from Irish saints, established by God
The sun was her maid, its' flames
A reflection of her beauty
Besotted Poseidon took refuge in her eyes
When Caesar gazed at her smile, he refused to cast the die
Her will toppled empires and erected kingdoms
Words lost meaning by her touch
For it possessed its own language
Now only silence remains; unable to hear her touch
The blight within having destroyed what she once embodied
Now imagination is all that gives life to the caress of her lips
Dreams, the only way I can feel her warmth beside me
Though she fades in graves of dirt
Her enchantment shall be made immortal
In the confines of my memories.
Copyright © George Cavitt | Year Posted 2012
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