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
that last stanza is amazing
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Thank you.
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