The Guardian

Fairest lady of my being,

Myne eye hath beheld all thy hast done;

Endureth, ye wilt on prolonged blessing,

For thou hast yet been borne, O’ Maiden!

 

Spirit of injudicious descent,

E’er shattering soul of relent,

Thine breath spent on laments!

But thy will spins in the lake of torment.

 

Flesh of milk and honey,

Hair of silkiest mane;

‘Tis naught scoped by means so earthly,

Knowest thou wilt and thy love shalt wane.

 

Thy slender lips, injected with disdain,

Teeth, grinded with muzzled passion;

N’er ceasing an immortal hunt of a lost swain,

Whilst strangling thy bond of brethren.

 

How I yearn of thine deliverance!

Yet thou wilt naught hear of me;

Thy mirror wilt shew of thine own monstrance,

As diplomatic hands fill thy neck with jewelry;

 

Thou canst not conform;

Yet ye shalt defy thy alien head,

Still thou wilt conceive scripts of a firestorm,

Foretold by a timeworn mass of the dead!

 

All this spake I, into thine fetal mind;

‘Til for thou, dead bells hast hrung,

By thy side, e’er faithfully grieving I-

Thine hamstrung Guardian.

 

 

 

-Leah

Reviews

[Belle]

A piece with so much quality of refinement!
I love the phrasing and the old words adoption...

[Michelle_H]

Great poem. Very unique. Love the vocabulary and flow of your words.

[I Shred This Cabbage]

some very nice phrasing,

Teeth, grinded with muzzled passion

E’er shattering soul of relent

Still thou wilt conceive scripts of a firestorm