Thursday, May 24, 2012

Molten Ire


She appeared as porcelain; a hand made perfection that might shatter if bumped from its pedestal. Her hair, blazing red like the fires of Galway Forge, flowing over her rounded shoulders in waves as if molten ire. Her breasts spoke of warm nights and soft nuzzling; her hips flared, their tender flesh covered in emerald brocade, cinched by a silver, tasseled rope. The lady's feet were minuscule, dressed in blackened buckskin and eye-hooked silver braid; she gripped an oriental paper fan, her long, delicate fingers comforted by Irish lace gloves, their cuffs pleated, and fastened by a single silver button.

But her face was my most wondrous prize, her magnificent face with its startlingly dark blue eyes that set upon their target as if the smallest bird alighting on a willow switch; under which a long, slender nose led one's gaze to her full, cherry red lips, pursed slightly, wetted always.


She had no idea I existed; that I adored her features, her grace, that I considered her a natural masterpiece. No man of means or station, I am invisible before her glorious beauty. Of that I am saddened yet resigned; I know my place and it is not beside one as she. But I must here in pen and ink rejoice in the gift God has bestowed upon me by allowing this one glimpse into heaven; for this angel of light to have crossed my path was a blessing from which I may never fully recover. I am hers and so will leave this place, that I not become overwhelmed by my love and speak out of turn, that I not shame her by a random petulance. Yet her visage is burned into my memory and when the rose of Sharon blooms no more, when winter's bite snaps away all but that which is crisp and white, I shall see her face and be stilled... that I might be warmed by the image of her radiant smile.

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