A Study | Clovers

Your eyes are as a sonnet, eyes to match -- conveying separate lines.

This is not a dark, unsightly truth,

It is the glint of a moment forgotten,

Something hidden, a small charm,

For in casting and in knowing,

Forbidding your lips it be spoken,

Training your mind to steer clear of...

… away from such a mem’ry,

It has been given a spark unmatched,

It is a covetous flame embarking,

A cinder seething through all thought,

And she, she wore a cigarette,

Behind her pearled ear,

Her voice seemed to echo without cause,

It rang out through your small universe,

Bringing chaos to its knees,

A crooked laurel rent asunder,

The pages she entreated you to read,

That book is still on the shelf,

Proudly displayed, spine wearied,

Lined, creased hard in the middle,

From a Summer rationed,

In half-poisoned breaths,

You laid in fields ‘neath the sun,

Singing, dreaming, listening,

For a silvered thundercloud,

Your eyes were weary then,

Marked with little hopes you could afford,

Mapped with places you had seen her,

Before the fall, before you knew,

Each delicate, lovely piece,

All the beautied broken fragments,

And the fragrance of her skin,

When the asp sunk low into the clovers,

Sight unseen, though presence felt,

Was it undoing or unending?

A scene unstudied for a season,

Perhaps a dynasty of verses,

Still unspoken, some unknown,

Though sometimes, when rest,

Brings sleeping visions,

She will wander through your woods,

And ask you bind her,

Relinquish every new desire,

Forget the women’s faces,

You have come to love between,

Though, she is aether,

Fairy favors in a realm writ fee of magic,

Save the haunt of hours spent.