The womb is a tomb
              of contemplation.

Where birth is a reality,
                of perspective.

And death is a realisation,
             that nothing lasts forever.

At rest, the motions seem sublime,
as we prepare our circular climb;
The winding 'round of colors' whims,
beneath the rock's exotic gems.

As the tale entrusted to our elders,
life's epic journey starts to smolder;
The planet's rage urges from its core,
and soon our days will be no more.

So moving quickly to escape our fate,
from the destiny of trials and hate;
Now gathering missives from the sun,
no longer fooled by anyone.

We face the climb just as we must,
before our hearts turn into dust;
and cheering on are clouds of rain,
Which spill onto our wounds with pain.

But then we see the course return,
exempting souls from hurt and scorn;
While climbing high yet much too far,
we've failed to capture heaven's star.

The perfumed scent of lilacs,
spills across the room;
Dew-drop eyes flutter slightly,
with an air of confidence.
A lace-edged handkerchief falls softly,
beside her wicker chair.
She moves like a ballerina,
in midst of a graceful dance.

I've seen her in the garden,
while the sun is burning bright;
I've seen her in the moonlight,
kissing lovers a fond goodnight.
She radiates a special warmth,
which flows with easy charm;
And tenderly she crosses the floor,
to grasp her partner's arm.

So rare we see such loveliness,
that speaks to all around;
And when she's finally whisked away,
one dares not utter a sound.
For this fine and delicate lady,
is a vision and delight;
Like embers from the fireplace,
that sparkle through the night.

As if in a dream she signifies,
the ideals of true romance;
The way we'd want ourselves to be,
if we only had the chance !