Merthyr Poet


Cavalier Of Sorry Portents - Poem by Merthyr Poet

Drunken admirers of whom brushed past her curves –
they were only sweeping through her like birds...

But every day a different gentleman brushed past her
like nothing before – no bird, it was a wave imported
From the strongest ocean,
slow, slow, he turned.

Wore black, they always made sure:
“If you can find light in me, then it will show
when we exchange a look...”

Shallow, the perverted, they know how to prey –
they only held weighty ego afoot their lightest gate...

But another gentleman sometime rested a weighty set
of fingers upon his gate so heavy
Like the conscience of crime,
wide open or not at all perchance in consequence there shall be no Love,
and oh so wide of its skies.

Wore black, they always made sure:
“If you can find light in me, then it will show
if my eyes cannot follow your own, when they tear and barely open...”

Even those who made move in kindness –
they were only stirring themselves, once a stationary sky at best.

But another gentleman was constantly approaching her
like no other mortal could do – his manner of progression was thunder
from more than a sky; the universe of unearthly constellations that doth not spare thee:
pulsing, contracting, expanding, and chanting their spontaneity –
he was neither fleeting nor blatantly sunk into his body, stationary.

Wore black, they always made sure:
“If you can find light in me, then it will show
when you fall in love, blinded by its power to guide you...”

But the lady had completed the gallery of portraits in motion,
for numerous days; fluctuating fantasies like dripping lotion,
And they repeat, abstract notion from his eye,
became so much a wealth of sense to someone so shy,
But he stays young, and terminally all for her,
the Love equilibrium – a balance of the reject and inser button,
The cat will bite before it purrs,
but protective all the same, whatever its feeling adapting to situation
After another,
and one man’s reclamation in the timid-flamboyant lady:
“I can recover your heart, if only you let me”...
“No”, she cried: “I’d rather it done with...”
And she, like the buried, had no more to give,
but the man cried forth, and peeled back the door on its heel,
There stood a priest in emerald garment,
a frown of disdain, and no more portrait in that loveable gallery to see!


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Poem Submitted: Monday, December 19, 2011

Poem Edited: Tuesday, December 20, 2011


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