Achaean News

Previous Article | Back to News Summary | Next Article
Poetry News Post #7

Faithfully.

Written by: Voyager Grek Lockwood
Date: Thursday, February 7th, 2019
Addressed to: Tanis Sinnsro


How can I describe the wonders, the sweetness of romance?
It is to tutor music to one who's never thought to dance.

My beloved is as a temple carved from the canyon's side,
And though the course is narrow, my eyes are always wide.
My heart leaps ever hopeful even as my footsteps plod away,
And my knees long for nothing more than to kneel and pray;
To supplicate myself before her, to wonder at my worth,
To recall her gracious welcome and to dance along in mirth.

Her smiles are the petals left drifting in the babbling pools,
Her eyes cannot but gild the world, priceless shining jewels,
Her words are notes of music that drift through the holy halls,
Her skin is scarlet calludite, murals trailing along the walls.
Her lips are a sermon succulent to which I eagerly succumb,
Her touch is a mighty mallet's blow upon my heart - the drum.

Perhaps I a pilgrim's spirit; perhaps a convert's zeal;
In love's refining flame, I am naught but melting steel.

-Grek Lockwood


Previous Article | Back to News Summary | Next Article
Previous | Summary | Next
Poetry News Post #7

Faithfully.

Written by: Voyager Grek Lockwood
Date: Thursday, February 7th, 2019
Addressed to: Tanis Sinnsro


How can I describe the wonders, the sweetness of romance?
It is to tutor music to one who's never thought to dance.

My beloved is as a temple carved from the canyon's side,
And though the course is narrow, my eyes are always wide.
My heart leaps ever hopeful even as my footsteps plod away,
And my knees long for nothing more than to kneel and pray;
To supplicate myself before her, to wonder at my worth,
To recall her gracious welcome and to dance along in mirth.

Her smiles are the petals left drifting in the babbling pools,
Her eyes cannot but gild the world, priceless shining jewels,
Her words are notes of music that drift through the holy halls,
Her skin is scarlet calludite, murals trailing along the walls.
Her lips are a sermon succulent to which I eagerly succumb,
Her touch is a mighty mallet's blow upon my heart - the drum.

Perhaps I a pilgrim's spirit; perhaps a convert's zeal;
In love's refining flame, I am naught but melting steel.

-Grek Lockwood


Previous | Summary | Next

Would you like to receive the Achaea newsletter?

Enter your email below. We won't spam you!

Would you like to receive the Achaea newsletter?

Enter your email below. We won't spam you!