Poetry

At this very hour,
I fantasize of a seraph,
The allure of her presence in an orthodox day,
I miss that offering at this very hour,
In spite of a fib I allow draw this way.
But dreams slay lies skulking in the mind,
So I seek her will to fancy such a fellow,
For I stow my conceit in a jail behind,
Which I dare not visit at this very hour…
Appearing to be a heavenly decent,
With glistening gold hair leaving the sun sightless,
It relaxes on her perfectly and –
In her crystal blue eyes – seas may drown,
Along with I stay grateful for her mellow voice,
One that hinders the vulgar me I caged.
Till now – I think of the aroma she wears,
And till now I know of the liking she brings,
My heart, a slight stone, cold and forlorn,
Can only be locked in glee if she is the guardian –
If she is the guardian seraph…