Dreaming

My muse has obviously been alerted to her absence. I wrote this late last night, and was going to publish then, but didn’t want to inundate everyone. I hope you like this one. Thank you for reading.

Take my hand and close your eyes,
Let dreaming give us wings,
We’ll float above the rushing crowd
Where the swallow sings,
And ‘neath our flying shadows cast
We’ll see what night time brings.

Up among the royal clouds
No cold will touch our skin,
For minds when joined in dreaming flight
Will oft’ be warmed by sin,
And with our hands so soft entwined
Our coupled night begins.

Our bodies though they rest in sleep
Have freed our minds to fly,
And as a pair we soar as one
Amongst the star lit sky,
Who knew such pleasure could be found
With just a closing eye.

We share our wand’ring minds tonight
And fly behind the moon,
No body old will hold us still
Our spirit free to bloom,
We’re charged to grasp this chance to fly
As dawn will come so soon.

Let’s hold the memory of our night
When all the world to see,
The sky our playground full of stars
That lit our joy and glee,
And maybe soon we’ll join again
To soar and so be free.

Put Away

Well, wherever my muse has been, she’s decided to pay me a fleeting visit this evening, and this is the result. I hope you like it.

I’ll pack away these tears of mine
In box of silk-lined oak,
And when I think of love we had
They’ll speak of heart that broke.

I’ll hide away these dreams of mine
In chest of aged wood,
For only dreams kept safe for me
Will stand where passion stood.

I’ll put away these words of mine
In pages writ with blood,
They could not sway your iron mind
Nor stem the rising flood.

I’ll lock away my secret want
With chain of silver sheen,
And in my darkened thoughts of you
Perchance they’ll set to gleam.

I’ll turn away, dear, from your light
From all I want and need,
Forever now to be bereft
My heart to fade and bleed.

Reblog: The Artist And His Lovers Doom

I’ve been watching The Portrait Artist Of The Year this evening, and it’s made me even more frustrated that I cannot paint. But, in honour, I thought I’d reblog this piece. Hope you like it.

The artist locked in sunlit room
paints picture of his lovers doom,
enthralled to inspirations muse
it matters not what paint to use.
For image grown on canvas pure
will show the truth of which he’s sure,
continuing ill fated tryst
is more than his poor soul could risk.
But cowards blood pumps through his veins
no strength to pick through loves remains,
so using his creative art
he paints the state of foolish heart.
Will world be shown his finished piece
so granting love’s unchained release,
or will it lie in sunlit room
this picture of his lovers doom.