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The Towers of Santo Dominique

That letter I sent

Lost at heart

Lust—

Indited…

A floral destiny was mine to be.

Over which

Constables and

Troubadours and

Knaves and the

Jesters and all

Aldermen have

Fought over, yet

Gone, begotten by

The nary prince that

Stood forth upon the gates

Of the limestone castle

As he passed along for my arms,

Hearkened unto ballads,

Holding a mint envelope,

Hoping to be desired.

Fourscore years hath he

Travelled over glebes and

Moors for a princess

Hence he inquires now.

I refused mine hand,

Why, which sensible dame

Dares to cast even skin

For a roaming heathen

Wild eyed and contraband?

Yet; goodly as I erelong,

Forthwith his compeer begins

Persisting and pursuing

The masks that he now put

For a show of cavalry, mayhap

And severe generosity

To make milkmaids surely faint

Oh, dear sire, but not I, said we

I am a stubborn lot, I fare

And one ritual is all it takes.

So I held my stone heart

In one lithe hand;

Lightning pendant in the other

Glim of light betwixt,

And prayed for redemption.

My wishes were painted,

Yet, in a cruel djinn act

And, on the morrow

The bricks began to fall

And the rain wept in agony

As screams intertwined with

Death church knells, tolling;

Warning for oncoming doom.

Yet, oh tragedy—! Not too soon

Did it come, all too late, and

The towers crashing

Over Santo Dominique

Twisted a thousand fates

And claimed a hundred souls

I wailed in bereavement

And I proclaimed to fled

Thinking myself a wretched witch

A damnable soul, I.

But still he, braveheart,

The chivalrous gentleman,

The unfaltering prince,

He pulled me from the wreck,

As he did hundred others,

He did the work of an army,

A battalion borne to save.

He claimed with intensity,

And passion forsooth,

And calm forgiveness,

And faith in his God and I

For mine spare emotions

Yet humanity is a fragile thing

And hearts more fragile so

And two of such broke

As I realised my cruelty,

As he passed on within my arms,

Hearkened unto dirges,

Holding a tattered envelope,

Hoping still to be wanted,

That neither

The constables

Nor troubadours

Nor jesters

Nor knaves

Nor alderman

Can even begin to pertain

Yet asunder our destiny was to be.

Indited…

Love—

Lost at heart

The letter I sent.

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Filed under Poetry