Tuesday, May 8, 2012

The Lady

Little is known of her but, her decor
Speaks of a high lady well bred, a bloom
Of the night that walked in the sun. A bore
She is not, and hardly one to run soon
Away from either the night or day;
But there is something about her presence
That causes me to walk, to run, to say
No words to her except when need presses
Upon my mind without ceasing. The press
Of such a lady is littered with gold
From the tales of old, most of them untold
Save in rhyme, riddle, or legend. Confess
I that my knowledge of her is but a
Sham compared to what I would wish it were.

                                   The Lady, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

No comments:

Post a Comment