My Poetry: Love's Mist Retreats, Again

Love’s Mist Retreats, Again

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The solemn deathly mist
clings to the shoulders
of the harried man
who hurries
like a doped lab mouse
through the shadows
of his solitary bliss.

His tombstone soul
runs from the hand
that conjured forth
that deathly mist,
 ten thousand years

of minstrel and poet
verse and song

could not explain.

It just is, they would hiss,
that solemn deathly mist
which lightens
the blackest heart
like hope’s blanket cast
across the barren banks
of despair and pain,
both cursed, as they are,
by light and shade's shadow.

Now, as he runs,

the maid sits staid and sad
with just the thoughts
that fill her head,
words of minstrel

and broken poet
leaves her blind
as the mist of love

retreats again.

 pic: jameswoodward.wordpress.com