posted August 13, 2013 12:40 AM
I'm thinking about adding more, but for now this is what I haveI play forthe night
Upon the walls of weeping,
Where I traveled in disdain,
I heard a violins sound seeping,
Through the dreary wet rain,
There I did travel so contrite,
To hear this sound of angelic gracile,
But who was I, what was it my right?
To walk this place so versatile?
On walking more I did find,
A maiden in a phase of waxing,
Sitting in an open tent confined,
Playing Paganini while relaxing,
"For whom do you play my pretty miss?"
Asked I in utter queerness,
By one who would play in this abyss,
Though I myself of it was fearless,
With honeycombed wet hair,
Diid her head turn to me,
And dark eyes with blare,
She thus addressed me,
"Why my good sir I play for the night,
Weather the season be fall or spring,
I play for its lovely sight,
And the moon seems taken by my playing,"
Lindaland
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posted August 13, 2013 12:40 AM
Your poem has such romantic flourish and power. Vivid...