Darkest tides of a forbidden past,
The darkest rupture only here today,
If only laments would vent the chaste,
That imprimitive longing would go away.
If seeds that bore her tears could freeze,
And desires would be torn set free.
Would that new born life of bliss be born at Eve,
But that fire burns her wounds, merciless and painful with all unease.
That fear that would only retreat forever,
Would break that tie upon what was given to her,
That future that would drive her hope further,
Would let loose, and bring her closer to a new lover.
Longing for the prevalance of her pain,
That cruel and witted bleeding in her heart,
That fathoms upon her with deep tormenting reigns.
Shackled, devoured, and forgotten with hope shredded apart.
Only that love that can set her free,
To be of the one she could rest at last.
And wake up in the morning with the misery,
Of the nightmares from her past.
Her elegant words of love, proove that want inside,
And if that promise can be given,
Words would drift with a epiphany of love that isn't deprived,
To relax her under the willows that are never forgotten.
The rose that wilts, shadows her soul,
And it dies with tortured lace.
Her hurt burns like a sunsetting glow,
Falling, darkening, and leaving without trace.
That falicous human nature,
Of desires that imprisons with our lowliness,
Would set boundries that would nurture.
And a tear sheds, as my heart sinks,
To watch her in the pain she writes.
Her poetry laments words that no one thinks,
Alone, love has wounded her and left her out of her sights.
But for dark will turn to light,
That grievance in her poetry, would be of delight,
To see her re-enter with hearts and flowers flight,
To become one, and sleep comforting with her lover in her sight.