Pic source: Mountain Journal.
Kneeling down on her soft bed, my eyes follow
hollow sounding, icy trails from hot breath;
my hands hold the deep, voluptuous curves
of an ice maiden, languishing e’er long this coldest
A contradiction; how easy she melts
at the first caress and too soon my heart aches
for callous black ice to keep forever the footprints
of yesteryear, sadly only imprinted forever in memory –
how quickly they disappear in warmer times.
Is it by tender touch and passionate farewell, or does the iconic
Lady of Winter, as yet unloved, simply
shake off her shrill wrap to vanish once more?
Draw the Junoesque shapes of me,
colour my world fantastically,
shade with depth and imagination,
sketch my past
into oblivion –
paint me with your words.
Blush my cheeks, awash with hope,
use knife edge, brutal and excited strokes,
draw me in with a mad, brush crush,
flamed onto canvas –
don’t paint me with your smoke.
Stitch my love heart
gone ragged at the seams.
Concentric tourniquets constrict
full bodied platelets
1 mm from their centre
to merge and congeal within a pulse
of a blue vein’s throbbing
wingspan bursting though
Outraged, deep wounds
A Quadrille is a 44 word poem.
Picture: Paul Militaru
bouquet of love’s
passion sleeps in velvet
within dreams of secret desire –