Time will tell.
Weary is the sense again,
Pervading thoughts this night;
Caressing tapered, loyal friend,
He feels that he must write.
This night, as those in years before,
When lonely came to stay,
His need to hold her then, once more,
In lands so far away.
-
The parchment crisp in freshness fold,
Yielding to such healings;
As curves and lines of purpose told,
His love, for her, unveiling.
His eyes compressing sadness wells,
Then dry upon his cheek;
As words are born, some anguish quells,
And he doesn’t feel as weak.
-
Such confidence, his fervor guides,
To confess his honest will;
Unfolding wealth of love inside,
A place he keeps her, still.
There, he claims, such pure intent,
Will know no other light;
Remorse in tarried moments spent,
In years of youthful plight.
-
His testament of pining heart,
Mirrors those he’d penned ahead;
Communicating misery’s start,
And emptiness of bed.
With novel image paints a scene,
Which will burst her burning breast;
Then comfort her in kiss, serene,
And knows no passion’s rest.
-
Content that he has then transcribed
Amendments toward desire;
Of words his drunken heart imbibes,
No means to dowse such fire!
Seals it then, as if were him,
To transport ‘cross the miles,
Where she’d rejoice to faith and whim;
Embracing current trials.
-
Arriving then, in morning snow,
She grasped the scented dispatch;
Held it ‘gainst her chest aglow,
Such warming mem’ries catch.
Then hobbled to the sacred box,
She kept beneath her bed,
Arthritic hand then fixes locks,
Stores another, left unread.
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!
