As he lay a-sleeping and dreaming of days to come
She sat and read his words of love, good memories – there were some,
His tender thoughts were salve to her soul, she had to understand
All rocky roads and broken love were nothing he had planned.
She knew his hopes and deepest grief, and battle wounds of betrayal
His passioned heart of gentlest strength – his loving a high portrayal.
How wrong was he, how cruel, how scared, how ever could he be -
that dearest sweetest knight in armor, beseeching on bended knee?
She swallowed hard and brushed the tear that trickled down her chin
My God! she thought, the competition! a race she could not win.
She ran her coarse, yet capable hands down her face and throat
and grazed across her upright breasts- so many poems they wrote
Words of sadness, songs of hope and stories filled with pain
Published poems of fairies, and dragons that are slain
The princesses in his stories were all graced with beauty fair
The mirror before her mocked her age…the telltale signs were there.
As he lay in a peaceful slumber not knowing what she thought
She stood aside and did not know what she should feel or do
‘Why do I feel like I do not want to know, but knowing like I ought’
She mourned…‘I’m not a goddess or siren or motherly type –not you.’
She looked at him with tender intensity, whispered to the sleeping man
‘I will never have an angel’s halo, a badge of courage on my breast.
I’m not your smooth, voluptuous vixen, no, it wasn’t a part of the plan
I do not have the beauty nor figure nor sensual moves…at best…’
To be part of the truth and the late afternoon light that stretched out before
She prepared herself to leave…a sadness of futility and faded youth
Unnoticed by her, he opened his eyes - spied the journal on the floor
He saw her tear-stained face … and it slowly dawned on him….the Truth.
He put up an arm to bid her to him, more than ever he wanted her close
She saw him move and reach for her, and she hesitated for a tick of the clock
The emotion-filled poems of the past were forgotten, her future was written in prose,
Her feelings of doubt and despair and regret and aging were repressed with a lock.
She lay in his arms as he went to that place that they shared in their words and dreams
‘Wait for me, dear, I’ll join you right there…just wait by the brightest star.’
Chasing the sleep and slumbering deep took a lifetime of living it seems….
‘Our pasts are our pasts,’ said he, as she reached him at last – ‘but look who’s here now
….we are.’
This is about all of us who compete with the characters of memories….they are only ghosts.
Apparitions of the past. They cannot hurt us.
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