Her Name Is Poetry Poem by Lynn W. Petty

Who is this sprite, this nymph that haunts my inner self,
That dances on the fringes of the shadows of my mind?
What spirit penetrates beneath the surface of my being,
That makes me pledge my heart, implore her love
And then, with flippant air, will pawn my soul
For our brief written intercourse?
She teases me with our encounters,
Leaving me at her capricious whim to stand
Within the palest speculation of my thoughts.
She is the light within the mellow gloom
Of my reflective imperfection. A diva with the range of voice
That shames all heaven's choir;
A vixen, with an angel's grace who wears the habit of a nun,
Who speaks her lines with eloquence,
Or with a sailor's tongue.
I would give my all for what is never to belong to me,
The joy of her everlasting embrace,
For then I could write melodies that would ascend
Into the rhythm of eternal time
Leaving to the newborn
A thousand beauties of thought
And style.



By: Lynn W. Petty