Stained Glass Windows
Her eyes are the stained glass windows of the cathedral in which I’m a prisoner;
her arms, the pews that guide me to the altar of her heart.
There, her beauty awaits to blind me like prismatic lights with splendor;
aglow with evanescent joy, is the circle of my ardor.
Centripetal are the forces that spiral around this fleeting chamber;
for fear of eternal separation I do not depart.
Bereft of naught, yet not in light, my heart fills with candor;
my eyes alighted, silently, watching the door.
Her hair is the tender tendrils of the soft moonshine upon the floor;
her mien, the profligate child of unadorned scorn.
My eyes ajar, unblinking for fear of deep slumber;
not a spark from the darkly glowing ember.
Centrifugal are the forces that spiral around this impenetrable decor:
for fear of infinite dissipation, my cortex is torn.
My mouth parched, my throat in drought, surrender;
my soul in blight, a wail it does render.
Her eyes are the stained glass windows of the cathedral which holds me prisoner;
her arms, the pews that guide me to the altar of sacrifice.
My mind is trust for I do not question her,
for gaze of beauty, and lofty feelings, for me it does suffice.
