the Quiet

Upon reflection, I am not sure if I like this poem. At times, I connect with it, at others I find it overdone and maudlin at best.

Our writing tells us where we are; the style of this poetry reminds me of what I used to write in high school. Not exactly the same, but it feels similiar.

What does that say about where I am now?

—

In some quiet
resting place
beside a tired road
amid the temple’s tilt and ruins low.
I laid my head to wander

I dreamt thereof the fairer sex,
her curving smile, her tender breast
and guided there
by wicker hands
she laid my head to rest.

Cradled ‘gainst a marble thigh
my gaze on crests of stone
her garden built,
in giant’s pride
were crafted of her bone.

Long I lingered in her place
‘fore stirring myself anew
my hands were roughed
in granite’s touch
and kissed by morning dew

Now, I dream of her in downy repose
her winter sighs
her summer’s cloak,
her secrets hidden by man’s unknowing tread
and here, too, the weeds
where once I laid my head.

I dream of her and all is well.
a colding sorrow, tomorrow’s hell.
ask me not to love again.