The Mystic Poet

July 28, 2008
By Anonymous

In the early hours of dawn,
a hooded figure walked down the road,
and entered the sunlit lawn,
this his earthly abode.

He walked up to the large red house,
where he knocked twice and then did enter,
his noisy footsteps did arouse,
the slumped body at the room's center.

She awoke and rose,
and her caught the sunlight,
revealing her dark eyes and think nose,
and the restlessness of the night.

She was no beauty,
and she had not the lady's grace,
but in the eyes on the mystic poet there could be no one more pretty,
as he lifted her into a tight embrace.

He carried her out the door, so slim,
looked deep in her eyes,
felt her heart within,
as she said her goodbyes.

He carried her down the steps of the house,
so soft and pale,
her teeth like a that of a mouse,
he carried her to the edge of the dale.

He placed her in the mud so soft,
then sat down beside her,
and sang to her the song she oft,
sang to him, her only listener.

And there she lay,
with sparkling eyes and an unsightly place,
with her wish to lay once more in the clay,
captive in the poet's gaze.

He lay down beside her,
having sung her last couplet,
there they forever,
and so departed the mystic poet.

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