Perhaps I’ll bide my time with you,
you’re pretty enough,
so I can at least attend your words,
for lost I’ve become with connections,
when so many end in burned disarray;
and although I have no expectation,
the line of your face is fine,
like the arch of a swan’s neck,
an eloquent word or a robust wine.
Come sit with a crusty old soul,
unused to a delicate woman,
beauty found in words not form,
and mind immersed in the pleasures of the soul,
ideals and beauty of thought, my time;
perhaps you are more that way inclined,
not flesh but rhyme to my citing,
the magnificence of a moon in spring,
the dancing stars and the messages they bring,
as time long past acknowledges us.
Before you speak, think of the autumn leaves,
such beauty in death and decay,
as winter’s claws engulf all life, yet despite the cold,
pristine white prevails in wonderland;
tell me then what words drip from your tongue,
what fills the heart, or questions why,
and can a moon transform you,
the stars so old ignore you,
or are you here with me, souls to soul,
beauty and the beast,
for some moment I’ve not yet felt.
Please speak to me?
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