I have not once but many times,
Stood tall for lofty praise,
And taken chucks of foolish gold,
To seek such lonely gaze.
From withered heights' oblivion,
I've longed for lover's touch,
The warrior within me speaks,
I ask of her too much.
Who perished thoughts within me bind,
These chains that hold me still?
No key to press this rusted lock,
My captor's only will.
No evening glance of longed flesh,
No morning glory's rising sun,
This iron's press of fancy shall,
Surely see its whim be done.
Is it past I bade farewell this day?
Or love's sweet shrill embrace?
Whichever treads so lightly now,
Will help me keep my pace.
©2011 Thomas P. Grasso All Rights Reserved ☮ ℓﻉﻻ٥ ツ