Who are you, that sets the stage,
Gnaws on my heart, till I spew on the page.
Withers my core, with your shifting pace,
Eluding me, the more I trace,
A thousand dreams to rearrange,
A thousand words I disarrange,
To catch at the shimmering lace,
The riddle of colors that is your face.
The flickering light in decrepit halls,
The blooming storm in quiet calls,
The riddle in arcane lores,
The secret behind locked doors.
The caress of a lowly squall,
Lending a hand to winters haul,
Creeping through abandoned corridors,
Creaking on weathered floors.
But when I sit quietly, while silence falls,
And lull in your quiet song, your haunting calls.
When I surrender to the shifting pace,
And stop the scribbling to try and outpace.
A lowly visage colors the broken wall,
I see the draping of a shimmering shawl,
Along the silhouette of your face.
And the act is done, the words are in place.
For more of my poetry, visit: https://atlasofmelancholy.wordpress.com