a poem by Keith Lumbard, UK

Why doth thou crease such fineness of thine gown?,
And bare inverse such smile of crescent moon!,
To deny bright starry eyes beneath ones frown,
Cheats thy morning sunrise, thou lovely boon,

None tender soul exists, (though some may vie),
Sweet poetess, romantic poetess,
Those salty tears, o'er red sore eyes, you cry,
Does murk the mirth, thou future happiness,

Now wilt thou say sweet angel, hope is none?,
For blind, the deaf, the mute and stolen mind,
Be damned upon a spiders web there spun,
Or cherished by such souls of love and kind,

You are the image of thine mothers love,
Thee of a mothers love have barest child,
Whose fruits bore fruit with blessings from above,
All, all as beautiful as thou beguiled,

Somewhere therein a mirrored rivulet,
Be, so as thou, a sorrowed soul they be,
An effigy that casts a silhouette,
Thine to embrace, would kiss the thing you see,

Across vast oceans wide and unknown deep,
Amidst a telling breeze, quiesce, quiesce,
Within thy ear, are breathed my wishes sweet,
Upon thy cheek it seals a tender kiss.

Keith Lumbard 09th August 2011
A Dedication.

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