music

your name is a song in my ear

like the epics of times unwritten

it lasts throughout the ages that pass

a moment in time, captured, kept, frozen. 

 

i think of you, restless, urgent, in need

in the lull of the night, and the quiet

It writes lyrics to the song i hear

you are the poem in my head

 

i barely remember the taste of you

or the feel of you in my hands

it fades as all things do, into the sands

and will be forgotten but for a name

 

but the name is a song, said quietly

kept in my chest, wrapped in words

that unfurl into this, this call, your poem

but our story is untold, unsung

 

i think of the raven mane

that wrapped the pale flesh,

that smelled so sweet, and the voice

that whispered in my ear —  a song

 

i dream of a hand so small, wrapped in mine

safe from the world, invulnerable, iron

yet the fingers are still yet to entwine,

and it just becomes another line

 

in the song of our era, as short as it is

this age of ours, of arts and casks,

is yet to be sung, but a song unsung,

is still a poem, an epic, and glorious