Locked away for uncertain time,
Mindful of King Minos’ crime,
In a tower that stretch’d high beyond,
And hope of escape was something fond,
As he sat, he bent his neck down toward
A drenchèd floor and gazed with love abhorred
Into himself, framed with black murk, he stared.
The pool stared back, fiendish. There stooped, ensared
What gothic truths of feral ruin, when great
Churches burn and crumble. Foundations laid
In ground tainted with the harmonious weight
Sitting in a field of vivid, untamed
Flowers, deeply tinted in the sunlight,
Is a lonely soldier, clad in dirty
Warrior’s garb. Blood-stained blade beside him,
Upon a morning, mid-March time, still cold
And dank throughout, there was a figure which stood
Lean and slight, silhouetted against the bold
For the one I can’t forget.
I can see a shattered body, lying
Broken in the snow. A lonesome crying
Twirling ghosts wrapped, ethereal, around
Gothic spires, arabesque in silhouette
And piercing the ashen moonlight. She
Walked on misty stepping stones gleaming wet
Pure subtlety has ne’er before been seen,
With deep whites and pale crimsons as its sheen,
Opens glorious, its morning greeting,
Yet when darkness comes, its wings - fleeting.
Hung in the air by phantom hands,
Pulling tides up higher sands,
The sun turned inside-out it seems,
To guard and defend our magic dreams.
Two men, one with sense,
One with faith. The first needs faith,
The second needs sense.