Fickle
Tis a woman cold as the grave,
But her icy heart, I crave.
Indigo tis her churnin' eyes,
Teardrops, as briny waters rise.
Her salty scent a sailor be blessed,
Of sorrows heard aplenty confessed.
The sea my mistress she be,
Awe, the streams wept for me.
Windswept horizons made of gold,
Mergin' in the depths so cold.
Sail with me beloved, hand in hand,
Across tempestuous aqueous land.
Fickle is she, her treacherous form,
Restless cold heart harnesses a storm.
Her beauty awed on a brisk sail,
Navigatin' celestial reflections veil.
The moon her lover bards the sea,
A siren's song she croons to thee.
She cradles theΒ ship's barnacle bow,
Cleavin' with eternal steadfast vow.
More than the freedom holds
Alas pure adventure in brackish folds
Silencin' this gypsy heart,
As other sailin' quests depart.
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Comments
PoetessDarkly my gawd what a write, as pure a poem as I've ever read ofΒ the sea, magical pleasurable write, description is inspiring and the beat rolls like the murky waves....your syntax is maddeningly good, wow I'm gonna have some fun reading you, cheers; thanks for posting this one; favouring to come back to...Β
Fickle is she, her treacherous form,
Restless cold heart harnesses a storm.
Her beauty awed on a brisk sail,
Navigatin' celestial reflections pale.
thank you Christopher