Midsummer Night's Ballet

 

~ Midsummer Night’s Ballet ~

 

Sensitive and graceful curvature,

Behind those dark lips,

A soft, enigmatic phrase,

That was upon his kiss,

Never seeking me out, and dying,

Beneath the soft pale features,

That starkly showed a contrast,

To the flames that spurred the devil-

Who had grasped him,

Tucked him within its clutches,

Sought him out, regaled him with bright touches,

That enamored the word, the art, the whole, the beautified,

Glory-path,

Bright pendant within the moon’s light-

And then the pale, sodden, wet tongue suddenly turned black,

The evil art of his own figurine body,

Yet a casted, a dancing ballerina-

In bashful loving . . .

 

A shard,

Of heavy glass,

Yet, one that trickled down from a sun-flecked window,

Glancing at me in the sunlight,

Through his tamed, empathetic, red-rimmed eyes . . .

 

That dark intertwined with the silver,

And that beautiful prose,

Who made him what he could only be-

A creative talent whisking,

Against the woods in a midsummer night’s dream,

Black as the ace of spades yet so white, so endearingly luscious,

A porcelain set upon my dresser,

And now I can only think-

That something has taken away,

The devil inside,

Yet his tongue is still two colors,

As I barely brush against his soul,

Alight with shuddering, forcefully teased pleasure,

Trembling spurted physical and spiritual strength,

And the enigmatic force,

That this person holds for me-

And the phrase is loosened,

As I finally hear him speak,

As together we chat,

In a passion,

Which never needs an ear,

For,

We never have need of talking. . .