White Poem by T. M. Isaac

Who would have guessed such dreaded emptiness
might linger in things too beautiful to name?
Her glass-worked eyes shine disharmonious,
blooming fields of white, oozing intensity.

Such beauty touched by such austerity,
Linked flowers spread around her in a chain,
as if to mark where summer first breathed sweet
the endless fields of delicate embrace.

Unmatched, they say; not knowing the tears,
not knowing naught but the lingering snare
set to lure the beauty out of her bones.
Let them see what they see, those who see in passing.

The glorious blossom, a sea of light
glistening like the sails of million ships,
anchored by the shore of a forgotten place;
waiting for the tide to sweep in from below.

Muck ideology enshrouding all that makes
the beautiful, beautiful. Her softly woven eyes
fretted by winter's weary song, out of tune.
She waits for warmth to maybe grow again.

She waits for them to come and harvest her,
reap her from the glowing fields of true love
for naught but to satisfy desire.
She waits for them to come,
to take back, what was never theirs.

She waits for the ships to come in like the lilies,
as the summer waves pound the golden shore.
She waits for age to take away what legends gave,
as each December comes and leaves her languid eyes,
somewhat deader than before.