wept
with longing
for the Lady.
Her every move
strings and bells
and
Sirens song.
The poet had
freed
her from a
stifling affair
with a
pirate who had
stolen her
away from
a Kingdom
she was
ordained to
serve.
She had
fallen in love,
when he
accomplished
this feat
with niether
pistol or sword
but only
the power
of his
clever words.
And
he with her
centuries before,
some say
the beginning
of time,
at the birth
of the stars.
In the brilliance
of daylight
he would gaze
at her,
the tilt of her
head, the bend
of her wrist,
he would
relish in
the peal of her
laughter.
And he would
write verses
never ending
proclaiming
the feelings
he'd always
known.
In the comfort
of night he
would trace
her naked
shoulders with
fingertips
and tell her
stories of
the lives
he had lived,
and he would kiss
gently her
nape, and she
would settle
into the arms
that had
held her,
since the moon
was young.
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