My lady waits in conscious thought,
Precluded and abstaining,
With fickle motions bought
And sold in a moment’s notice.
She stands and lies and shivers,
Like summer rainfall or icy leaves
At winter’s end, when all delights
Must finally shake those fickle traces
And embrace their bitter finality.
My lady waits and presents
Herself to me, and now I shiver
As the wind that fills my heart
And blinded, new swept soul
Lifts me up and casts me aside
In another long felt gesture
Of indignation and unkempt desire.
My lady waits for me,
And I listen for her call.
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For more of my poetry, check out Poetry for the Sad, Lonely and Hopelessly Endangered and The All or the Nothing, available in print or e-book formats.