To H.M Poem by Scarlett Charlotte

In the darkness, all serene
I came across a moonlit scene
I came across a campfire dream

I found a girl whose hands were cold
A teenage boy whose eyes were old
And both a grip with Evening’s hold

The boy did hold a fairer face
The girl, wet dewed, in Cynthia’s grace
And yet none seemed it out of place

His hands were warm as hers were chill
And on the softly glowing hill
They spun around to feel the thrill

And yet as tangled as they came
Neither was more or less to blame
As in the night we’re all the same

And as they spun right of their feet
And landed in the cold-grass seat
All messy things that once was neat

And through behind the cold girl’s eyes
An intricate web of sighs
Leave her to her midnight cries
But in the boys warm glowing face
The girl had thought she found her place
And none would find her to his taste

But this Boy belonged to none
And all who held him, wanted some
For He belonged to everyone

For girls do love the warmest hands
And all around him did they stand
My girl had melted into sand

But he still chose to lead away
Although joy waited, if he stay
For only him, they’d wait all day

And in his mind no one can tell
If he’s in heaven or in hell
He hides beneath his fire-shell

And if they cannot sit by side
Through the fire, smoky eyed
They peered until they nearly cried



A child’s longing is much more
Than one whose lived a thousand score
For the fire has never burned before

And so they sat and watched their friends
Life is life, means to the ends
And from the grisly heaven sends

And neither is want to leave the night
It just leads to morning-plight
And steals away the fire light

And yet the tears on the girls face
Seem her fears to lose her place
For she was never one to chase

And he is chased by all who see
And all girls love how he can be
And why would ever he love she

But tears that stain her teenage cheek
Are never anymore than bleak
As she sat by the moonlit creek

As he sat by the moonlit stream
With the fire burning clean
And in the cold, a rising steam

Behind his face where nothing lies
‘cept the changing colour of his eyes
And the calm wing beats of fireflies

Did he find a thing to say
Or did he let her go away
If he loves, then let her stay

But I moved on in through the mist
The Evening’s memory in my fist
To add to my growing list

Of uncertain likes that love them still
Of lovers spinning on the hill
And soft young words, that old hearts kill.