Post by moonwick on Feb 1, 2007 12:13:36 GMT -5
Statues of heroes
littered my heart's galleries,
their magnificent hues of deep bronze
reflecting the spectrum of Life
that splashed across paintings on every wall:
great portraits of the people I'd known
and landscapes of the places I'd been.
There were books that lined shelves with my stories,
and fountains that flowed with my tears.
Abstract glass sculptures of dreams stood their ground,
crafted of sand from Time's own devices.
And, of course, colored lights laced the high ceilings;
lavenous carpets lined every marble floor;
aching, lovely songs trickled through curtains of oxygen.
But the best thing of all was the oyster,
in its small, vivarium box,
creating a milky pearl from the dust of the lessons I'd learned,
a parting gift in the making
for the day I would give it all away to my dearest love...
my warm, familiar heart,
that breathing work of art.
Till one day I threw wide the doors to add another memory,
and naught was left but dust and stale air,
as if no one had gone in or out for years.
Thank heaven my heart was not stolen that day,
but wretched thieves did leave it empty and bare.
'Twas then I locked the beckoning doors,
and had solid walls of ice built 'round it,
a cruel mistake, I know it was.
For what, now, have I to give?
littered my heart's galleries,
their magnificent hues of deep bronze
reflecting the spectrum of Life
that splashed across paintings on every wall:
great portraits of the people I'd known
and landscapes of the places I'd been.
There were books that lined shelves with my stories,
and fountains that flowed with my tears.
Abstract glass sculptures of dreams stood their ground,
crafted of sand from Time's own devices.
And, of course, colored lights laced the high ceilings;
lavenous carpets lined every marble floor;
aching, lovely songs trickled through curtains of oxygen.
But the best thing of all was the oyster,
in its small, vivarium box,
creating a milky pearl from the dust of the lessons I'd learned,
a parting gift in the making
for the day I would give it all away to my dearest love...
my warm, familiar heart,
that breathing work of art.
Till one day I threw wide the doors to add another memory,
and naught was left but dust and stale air,
as if no one had gone in or out for years.
Thank heaven my heart was not stolen that day,
but wretched thieves did leave it empty and bare.
'Twas then I locked the beckoning doors,
and had solid walls of ice built 'round it,
a cruel mistake, I know it was.
For what, now, have I to give?