Last Whisper

call her angelic,
say perfect she be,
this beauty,
below nightly heavens,
my breath does snatch,
in mangled thoughts they term her a rose,
red,
pink,
yellow maybe,
in that light skin,
and sweet,
flowing,
a natural hairs,
but pity be unto me,
that but her potraits admire,
in the coldness of a dying october moonlight,
left her images to stars a comparison,
least of mine a misery,

this,a queen,
in my world i would want to have,
wishes of fairy ends,
yet would such the comfort of tiles,
and fortified walls leave?
the warmth of foam,
and smooth silk forfeit?
to be a guest of cold and mites,
that be my tin world hosts?
would she dine on greens or a white mould?

'no sonny!
such to royalty and nobility belong,
while you to beggers and sufferers,
do belong,
be it your poor heart you need tear,
then, you to hopelessness hold,
and shed nothing while to the isle she takes,
in a knot to a noble be tied,
for not even the patched pants you shall be in,
on that last chapel seat,
a pity on you have'

but that be just a voice,
of hidden fears...
for the lady,of whom this i write,
holds the last a whisper..

©2011