- Books, Literature, and Writing
. . . Sleep so Softly
Sleep so softly, sweet honeysuckle heart
Though our pastures were not the greenest
We never saw our bridge apart.
Sigh so softly, slumbering night away
Though our hands were not always idle
We joined our youth until elder of day.
Dream so softly, young woman of purity
Stay silent while I open the curtains
To scare away your fear of uncertainty.
Awake 'til many hours, oh dreaming soul
Walk easy when the dark villain shall rise
Only you were made in His silver mold.
Fear touches not a hair, oh gentle daughter
And talk softly to lost memories so fine
Your steps measured--walk near the altar.
Nightingale speaks her lowly song, oh graceful hand
Ne'er seeking enough, ne'er giving a stand
But basking slowly in lost spirit's high band.
Sit quietly, oh glistening lover of mine
Let me hold one hand with sunrise twine
Speak to me in sonnet while we linger in the wine.
Shades of cold walls comin', oh carried one today
I go with you and sort off the today's
I bow in your love--in love bowing to a lover's name.
Sleep Softly: Aftermath in Misty Garden
Gently, amiably, she moves unseen veil of life
Not seeking abode, victuals, or mellowed strife.
But holding her noble head upward high
Now latching onto the title wife.
A touch for slighting moment slinks by
While underneath, serpents die and see no sky.
Chanting a lowly view from linen window she flies.
A lowly giggle a bite of stew in sequence thrice.
While my bones remains stationary as trunk just sawed
My riches, those I had, I gave her crying with claw.
But her past, her present life atones
Surrendering sunlight's bloodied wounds in thaw.
But simply, awkwardly asking while deep eyes crash
A brown look, a motion mistook
Now refuse, debris sold as useless men's trash.
Not her task of king's tale dark undertook.
Easy laid ashes sown in wind's icy name
Slicing a decided lover's door
While wiping tears mixed with lye in motion's game.
Never a minstrel . . .
Never a demented roar . . .
But a long drawn hissing door . . .
Never enters a curtain tore . ..
Passes a phantom whore . . .
Of whom I past eons exist to lore.
© 2017 Kenneth Avery