Who is She?
This sublime Lady of the nighttime of my soul.
She who holds court over dreams,
Dominion over every fantasy.
Otherworldly, She shimmers through the vanilla
dimension on a breeze of pure glamour.
She, the bright light, the flame that draws the
dazzled moth; one here who used to be cocooned
and grounded, aware only of cold autumn leaves
and grey skies, until transformed forever by Her touch;
the death before the re-birth into warm fragrant spring,
on gossamer wings, so fragile, yet destined
ever to be drawn to Her fire.
Who is She?
One who causes sleepless nights and fevered brow,
secret smiles and quiet contemplation.
Should i stop trying to make sense of Her,
wondering what makes Her tick, or why
She brings such intense pleasure through pain?
Perhaps She just 'IS'.
My Dear Beautiful enigma,
Captor of my imagination,
sweet Lady of my twilight dreams,
liberator of my spirit;
keeper of my soul...
MiCamino
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
"Where Are You?"
Friends often find me distant,
in arguments defer.
They wonder where i am these days,
of course! i am with Her.
They wish to know the places
my mind goes off to roam,
shut out from a vanilla world
where i never feel at home.
"Tell us what you're thinking!"
i smile, but won't confer.
look deep into my eyes, my friends
i'm dancing there with Her.
MiCamino
in arguments defer.
They wonder where i am these days,
of course! i am with Her.
They wish to know the places
my mind goes off to roam,
shut out from a vanilla world
where i never feel at home.
"Tell us what you're thinking!"
i smile, but won't confer.
look deep into my eyes, my friends
i'm dancing there with Her.
MiCamino
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
"Spilled Coffee"
Sitting alone, still and quiet, looking out through the glass wall,
sipping a tall coffee, atop a tall chair, completely unaware of the hustle and bustle, the clattering and the chattering, the bags and the shopping, the mobile phones and the screaming kids.
Feeling distinctly removed and out of place as usual, he sips his latte and his eyes trace the inevitable progress of another rain drop as it meanders down the pane; like a tear oftentimes rolls down his cheek in an afterglow moment with his beloved Mistress. If eyes are the window on the soul, what are tears?
The cleansing rain that washes away all the hurt and dirt from his usual world, perhaps.
However cold and grey outside, inside is a warm glow whenever thinking of Her.
Rain falls harder, umbrella's now and countless people flood past, hurrying, faceless, grey and he wonders if there is any colour left in the world.
He starts! Hot coffee splashes a hand. Pulses racing; heart thumping against his chest.
As if in slow-motion, a passing glimpse of blonde hair, long black leather coat, accentuating rather than concealing dangerous curves, the flash of silver from stiletto heels clicking unhurriedly along the wet pavement; a sound reminiscent of Her clicking fingers, beckoning, demanding, and, he fancies there is a faint shimmer in the air around Her - a sparkling brilliance, temporarily blinding him, amid the ocean of charcoal and sepia.
Wide eyed, he grabs his coat, spilling the rest of the coffee in the process. Chair scrapes deafeningly, indignant yells chase after him as a dripping couple in a queue are forced unceremoniously out of his way as he crashes through the mayhem and out the door, into the deluge of rain and unrelenting monochrome.
She is gone. No sign of Her having passed by.
He stands for several minutes in the pouring rain, wondering...wondering...
The world is once again colourless. Tasteless. Vanilla.
MiCamino )0(;-/
sipping a tall coffee, atop a tall chair, completely unaware of the hustle and bustle, the clattering and the chattering, the bags and the shopping, the mobile phones and the screaming kids.
Feeling distinctly removed and out of place as usual, he sips his latte and his eyes trace the inevitable progress of another rain drop as it meanders down the pane; like a tear oftentimes rolls down his cheek in an afterglow moment with his beloved Mistress. If eyes are the window on the soul, what are tears?
The cleansing rain that washes away all the hurt and dirt from his usual world, perhaps.
However cold and grey outside, inside is a warm glow whenever thinking of Her.
Rain falls harder, umbrella's now and countless people flood past, hurrying, faceless, grey and he wonders if there is any colour left in the world.
He starts! Hot coffee splashes a hand. Pulses racing; heart thumping against his chest.
As if in slow-motion, a passing glimpse of blonde hair, long black leather coat, accentuating rather than concealing dangerous curves, the flash of silver from stiletto heels clicking unhurriedly along the wet pavement; a sound reminiscent of Her clicking fingers, beckoning, demanding, and, he fancies there is a faint shimmer in the air around Her - a sparkling brilliance, temporarily blinding him, amid the ocean of charcoal and sepia.
Wide eyed, he grabs his coat, spilling the rest of the coffee in the process. Chair scrapes deafeningly, indignant yells chase after him as a dripping couple in a queue are forced unceremoniously out of his way as he crashes through the mayhem and out the door, into the deluge of rain and unrelenting monochrome.
She is gone. No sign of Her having passed by.
He stands for several minutes in the pouring rain, wondering...wondering...
The world is once again colourless. Tasteless. Vanilla.
MiCamino )0(;-/
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