Yearnings of the Wintry Soul
A dark love poem, as requested by Kathrine Elaine
This one’s a bit experimental where my continuing fiction trades with
are concerned. As you can see, instead of a traditional piece of fiction I’ve been challenged to write a dark love poem with the constraints of, and I quote, “No humour, no smut, just your heart bleeding in rhyme.”I do hope this suffices to fulfill your request, Kathrine. Writing poetry is far removed from my norm, as it’s an art form I’ve never been very fond of in many cases. (Modern cases in particular; someone please save us from the scourge that is slam poetry…) Nevertheless, it was an interesting challenge to take on. Now to see if I get lucky and the results are enjoyable to you all.
Heart,
Flutters.
Head,
Swirls.
Skin,
Burns with the yearning soul.
Fair skin so delicate,
Gossamer and velvet,
Tints to the pink of soft rouge.
Lace frills and corsets cast in warm candlelight,
Gold trim and pearls,
A-glimmer,
A-glow.
Bells of fine dresses that billow when twirled
As the soles of bowed-topped slippers
Tap, tap!
marble floors.
Gentleman callers embrace their fair ladies.
In rapturous closeness, they dance through the night!
And all is joy?
And all is love?
Nay.
No ballrooms for the fool,
Made warm by the hearth,
Made bright by the candles upon gold chandeliers,
Made lovely by all those lovers,
So young.
Nay.
No tender embraces for the hapless sod.
No warm dance for the vagrant who sits
outside
in the lonely night.
No soft light of comfort under the pale ghost moon, set
adrift
‘pon roiling seas of dark clouds shedding
misty
sprays of bone chilling sleet.
No love to be held, for
Never.
was it given.
No comfort to be had in the
Cold.
of a starless night.
No praise for the man cast out.
No thought to the soldier made vagabond.
No future to be found in the bone biting chill.
Regret.
For once was, now lost.
Warmth, held.
Intangible.
Laughter, heard.
Hushed.
Lace frills and corsets with pearls and gold.
Rotten.
Beauteous lover of such tender embraces,
Her eyes like the far reaching sea.
Her hair like strands of rose gold.
Her smile which shone like the sun.
Her hands of velveteen softness.
Her shoes which tapped ‘pon the marble.
Her love which filled him with meaning.
Dead.
Desecrated.
Decayed.
Leaving.
Leaving.
Leaving him.
Forever.
hands.
his
on
Blood
Sat at the base of an old, withered tree,
The vagabond spies the churning cloud sea,
As the moonlight ship sails toward he,
Bearing she,
Who hath been
So anxious to meet with the lonely man,
Who didst steal her life with his jealous hand,
Ending all she could be or might have,
And to him she shall say,
“Murderer.”
No love to be held, for
Never.
was it given.
No comfort to be had in the
Cold.
of a starless night.
No path left to follow but that toward
Hell.
for the jaundiced man
who couldn’t tell,
that the hand of the man
whom his wife held,
on the night he betrayed
her, and by his hand felled,
was that of her kin,
her brother,
and none else.
“Murderer.”
How apt a name for a once proud man,
Cast out in exile from his beloved homeland,
Driven by jealousy’s vile command,
To end all his wife was
in the grip of his
Cold.
Dead.
Hands.
My first novella, In the Giant’s Shadow, is available for purchase! Lured to the sleepy farming community of Jötungatt by a mysterious white raven, Gaiur the Valdunite soon finds herself caught in a strange conspiracy of ritual murder and very real nightmares.
Purchase it in hardback, paperback, or digital on Amazon now:
The Awen spoke!
I love this poem! Great vibe! ✨