That night, I walked the street
Beneath the clouds, I sensed the tears she shed,
her visioning of birds that fled in pairs,
as dusk descended on our torn affairs,
the cotton fog was dense - my only wed.
It was September then, the month of rain;
the harvest ended and the maidens passed,
persistently the nimbus clouds amassed,
- drops falling randomly to our refrain.
The maid was walking in the rain and mist;
our glances, blades to cut-and-thrust, beset
each others mind on sacrificial debt,
the beckoning of fates conjoined our tryst.
So somberly she walked that month of Fall,
pristine, accustomed to the old vendette;
the rain was falling on our courting duet
revolting to our burning blood and souls.
She wore black clothes due to her lost affiance,
betrothal waging to the recent war
of forty-nine, injurious memoir,
her mind was set to fight; she stared askance.
That night, I walked the street below her louvres,
she watched; her velvet eyes and beauty braw
her feral attitude, were bold and wraw
when she inhaled my scent and aural oeuvres.
As I recall, the moon had risen round;
untamed she came, defined inside its light;
against the wall her flesh became my rite,
to carnal prayer metamorphosed on ground.
And then from molten skies, the rain began
with eyes reflecting flash, on earth she groped,
with me, confessor of her sins, eloped,
beneath the rain, her kissed lips to part.
© 08-06-2012, G. Venetopoulos, All rights reserved
(Iambic pentameter)
