Friday, 27 November 2009

Bellamour, inverted and perfect, is a holy island.

Her fields are waves of violet grass;

Her forests, obsidian trees.

And the skies like blue-gray eyes

Swirl above their canopies

Orange pools among toad stools,

With mica dust where dirt should be,

Conceal limbs of grottos and caves;

Fluorescent moss and leaves.

All is pure, and safe, and real,

For only two dwell on these shores.

Who roll in every field of grass,

And laugh amid the gasping moors.

The sea, their only boundary here

And they know naught but love.

So by its will the whole world yields

When fingers sigh and move.

They stand as tempest masters,

Who are as they create,

With every single flake and drop

Born out of their fate.

For when a soul finds its counter,

With love unmatched and blind,

There is no realm that they’d deserve,

But one of their design.

-romantic daydreaming by me :)

1 comment:

Brett said...

You're a pretty special poet.