MYSTICAL
Dowries and teardrops, passed down as pearls;
Ribbons and sunsets for aspiring romantics…
Girls… and the women who steal them — the lavender swirls
take form as birds… then fly to their mark.
Yet still remains the innocence of cast and hue — my coloured moods:
shades befitting the gold that is you.
The red of heart; both within and above;
mine is the perch where sits a dove…
Under loving gaze–the dove, she coos…
Wind under wings, two souls take flight;
Hers is a splendour, both hot and bright,
which embraces a crown and provides me a throne;
The dove, with her radiance, sets flame to the night;
A kingdom established with her and then grown:
Her songs…
The last entwinement — our enchanted tones…
There is no beauty such as hers:
She sings the colours of her eyes; her smile reveals the complexities
found
in the greatest symphonies written.
The girl who became the dove… she belongs to me.
©2001 Jon Mychal
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