Her Angelic Sombrous Place

In simplicity of revulsions,
There was joy in her eyes,
One, who cared for nothing more,
‘Cept for an echoed cry.

For this, I had given her place,
Within my poor certain heart.

Of my meager desires,
She offered no surprise,
By the voice that carried,
Her, through the earth.

She stole the fragrance from blossoms,
As England breathed its farewells.

She knew of my own trials,
Through which I only longed.

These, were the very contemplations,
That spoke for empty years.

Yet, as I mingle stains,
With my soul of winter,
To which, I now bequeath,
A word of praise.

“I was the one, you craved,
The empty shell, you saved.
Neither one, could forge the tune,
That played, below the forest’s moon.
Nor could we share the soil,
That will pull our bodies down.
Let up the one within,
My soul, which I opened.”

The great art of her grace, knows not of the poor,
Now to crawl along the sands,
To the rocks upon the shore.

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