Marching Poem by Frederick Francis

Moving towards me
Each step never
Touches the ground.
She hovers on a
Carpet of my fancies
Each step trodden on
Another that I’ve
Laid before her.

This march continues
With fantasies of
Each step bringing
Her slightly closer.
Yet for all this walking
No distance is covered
She remains just
Off my finger tips.

There are moments
When she leans closer
I feel her warmth,
She trembles with it.
I taster her
Red strawberry lips
While her hair
Tickles my nose.

The distance is back
As quickly as it came
Once more it’s gone
The bridge burnt
By the passion which
Rules her actions
The passion which
Now rules mine.

The devil hides
In this angels smile
I am stayed by
The brown depths
Towards which I
Find myself stumbling
Until she reminds me
I mean nothing.


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