“There you stood, in all your glory,
Feet apart”, begun the story,
“Flashing blade in hand you took,
Winsome smile, witty hook.
At the quick turn of trained wrist,
(there was no chance that you had missed)
The blade sunk deep inside a heart,
That had never known a dart,
Nor been under lock and key.”
Your own affection was in a box, within a box, within a box
Each one closed with many locks.
When my wound began to sting, I still declared you to be king
But water in my throat did rise, and once’n even reached my eyes
I shut my teeth and looked elsewhere, but none I found to give a care.
No one measured up to you, a stark contrast like gold and blue,
Even your long drawn-out sigh, your walk, your talk, friendly goodbye.
I tried to pull shank out myself, put my love upon a shelf
The blade was wet from dripping life, and slipped back in, that horrid knife!
After times of intense pain, I would swear: Not again!
And slowly start to draw out lance, to go a week with a chance,
But on Saturday I’d often fall, hear my name as you would call,
I would begin to wish again, for a very special friend.
Where do you keep the Key? Why won’t you give it to me?
A tool of gold, my fingers hold, softly place it in the hole
And as my nails dazzle in your glow, I turn the lock and find your soul.
April 1, 2012
