To a Knight

Dimples on an Officer –
Incongruous on someone trained to kill.
But the combination got me going;
And though it was against my will,
I got to know them better.
Both the dimples were two sides of a scale;
And as my prejudice’s wont,
I’ve gathered that to be the end of this tale!
I even cried a bit.
For two reasons (that I shall mention here):
One: he disdained to accept our friendship
In public because of his own societal fear;
Two: he reached out to a part of me I thought had died
And which was once something very dear.

I usually write in verse,
When I feel greatly;
And as you can see,
It’s the tears I seem to cherish and nurse.
There is no explanation why
Someone touches someone’s history;
In most cases, with repression,
It all seems to end up a mystery.
Not with me.
I know the romantic in me, who I strangled,
Came back to haunt me last night;
And, as I looked on, he successfully wrangled
Old wasted emotions and new pent-up fears:
Abandoned chances of being carried off by some knight;
Appalling certainties of old age and lonely tears.

28th February
5:45pm

To A—-

To A—-

I shall think of smiles Today from the Past,
When we first met eight Septembers ago;
Those smiles which somehow managed to last,
Despite, both, Life and Time’s opposite flow.
The first rose I gave you is still bright red
In my mind’s eye, as are the ones you gave;
But Today’s incomplete if this isn’t said:
We are lovers, who Fate fails to enslave,
We passed the tests of grief Life had to give
And did well in what Time dared us to do.
Despite tears, we made those early smiles live
And, successfully, made some that’re brand new.
Our love, like our smiles, isn’t filled with the Past;
Its evolution is what makes Us last.

14th Feb
2:45am

Dreams.

 

He wanders through this wild, mad world
In search of soothing dreams,
And like the Lark that sings for All,
He swings on hopeful beams.

He lives amid a throng unknown,
Forsaking many smiles;
And yet the glint within his eye
Does many eyes beguile.

He talks to none about the dreams,
Conveys to none a sigh,
The others think him very queer,
He will not tell them why.

And Hope is never there at all,
And life is foully weak,
There comes a point when dreams are all
A weary heart can seek.

In them love can live forever
And joy is never old;
Courage is always the bravest
And souls are never sold.

In dreams shall he find his solace,
Wherein he freely flies,
They form the home in which he lives,
The tomb in which he dies.