The day is done and the night is coming
the lady of the dusk
whispering to me
and the silver-clad elfin wraith hovers
to summon the waiting wings of the raven
to smother the last of the light
and take me from here
forever.
She loves me with the wind on my bare skin
and the waves that wash the pain away
she shines the dark of night like a torch
and it’s pervading blackness washes my soul clean
of its need for the light
and free from the want of warmth.
Her skin against me is the cold touch
that wrings the last blush of that addicting sun
and it will never need the day again
and the rays of light will never reach this flesh.
Her touch is painfully cold
and her fingers trace
brings such exquisite frost
no warm breath can again bring thaw.
It would be my last wish to die in the arms of the night
and never again feel the warm rain
but it is not to be
and the dream soon draws to a finish
and the raven’s wings depart
and forever ends.
The dark figure clothed in moonlight
walking down the road of midnight
receding and taking my heart
and consuming my soul
and leaving me to face the coming dawn
with stolen heart
and eaten soul
and smiling face.
6 comments:
If this were short enough to have tattooed on my body, I would.
Lady Dusk
Only if i get to do the tattooing, baby. I'll do it with ink on my tongue....... Okay, that crossed a line of some sort, but what the fuck, it's anonymous, right?
By the way, to any who read and like this poem, the first comment, above, was written by the person to whom I wrote this poem, my muse, Valkyrie, and thus she has every right to sign herself Lady Dusk.
If the tattoo artist writes REALLY small, it might fit. Start at the collarbone.
And continue down across the elbows?
Considering the size of your elbows, baby, I shoulda wrote a longer poem.
So, I had a dream shortly after you posted your comment. Remember, In Conan the Barbarian (my personal favorite movie of all time) when they are bringing Conan back from the dead and they have painted runes all over his body? I dreamed of you with this poem written all over you. Unfortunately (or appropriately, considering the poem) you were also dead and shrouded in thin gauze and were being escorted to Valhalla by a bunch of buff nakes Vin Deisel lookalikes.
Probably aught to lay off the lentil soup before bed, huh?
Either that or send me the lookalikes before I die so that I can go with a smile on my face. ;-)
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