So wearily the ashes died into the mirror of their glow
As smoke wound round the lantern light, so sinuously slow,
While in her eyes and round her face there was a sense of fireside lace
So many times. So many rhymes, so many songs the future mimes,
Between the pages flowers pressed, from songs asleep in shades of green
So picturesque those soft Spring days where long ago they both had been,
Yet even as the embers blinked, she felt their souls were interlinked
As through the doorway down the hall she felt the dawn begin to call.
Between her pages, sage sublime, her words of consecrated rhyme
Were angel songs in red wine skies, that mesmerized each reader’s eyes,
And as she talked her wishes walked away from poetry in the rain
So many shadows walked before, so many yet again,
Where flowers danced from daydream light, into a subterranean night
Of feathered moon and stencilled stars, so many nears, so many fars,
Through myriads of echoing halls where only lonely poetry brings
The weary feel of Autumn breath, the subtle joy of unborn Springs.
She breathed the night, the night breathed her, and sometimes they would
Both confer, between their whispered masquerade, where dreams would
Never ever fade, despite a moonlit reticence, the night seemed just the same
To dreams that touched upon it’s shades, the evening was a game,
And games can mean so many things as daylight dies and evening sings
For songs cry just as babies do, when sometimes skies are grey and blue,
Yet in the end she held his hand, and thanked the night that brought him
back, for though their dawn was still to come, she felt it’s whispers once
again, and smiled like a lamp down a shadow lit lane...
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