For the One Who Played My Heart Like a Lyre
lamentations of the past four weeks...
She Said No, and I Wrote Her Into Eternity
Once, in a world of jest and idle song, She passed—as seraphs do, aloof, alone. Not mine, nor made for me, yet all along She stirred in me a fire I’d never known. I spoke in peace, in kindness, not in game, And dared to dream her heart might soften slow. But kindness fell like rain upon a flame— She turned to ash the thing I dared to grow. She said: “I’m here to learn. Let that suffice.” And in her words, the bell of silence tolled. She broke no law, yet still I paid the price, For hopes once bright now lie in mourning cold. Yet still I saw her, passing like a breeze, Her step more sacred now for being far. And I—bereft, down on poetic knees— Can only gaze, and bless her from afar. O Muse of mine, though thou wilt never turn, Still at thy altar does my spirit burn.
Ode to a Passing Flame
I still sit there, that desk beneath the light, With books outspread, I try to see it clear— That day you stood in boots and dress so white, A vision now that fades with passing day. Her eyes were pale as rain in morning light, The wind had played a song through open glass. That moment bloomed, then left me here alone, A ghost of time that memory won’t let pass. I trace your steps in silence every night, And wonder if the fates were drawing near. Was all we shared just chance, not fate's delight? Or did the stars intend to place you here? Yet still I sit, and wait in shadowed grace— A student of your love, and empty space.
What Did God Mean by Our Fates Intertwining?
I pen this verse to let you drift away. Would that it were not so. What did God mean when He uttered we were not made? I wrote you poems. Each night, your name was sewn into my prayers. You played the lyre of my heartstrings— You strummed the chords of my soul in golden light. My fair one, dwelling among the trees... Your chestnut hair, your gaze—a glacial flame. Your voice—divine, a hymn at liberty. I wish you only the gentlest skies. For love in me does not wither, only deepen— For those who once played my lyre, And left their echoes in scars. What did God mean by our Fates intertwining, My gracious and graceful woman of the woods?