The girl who ran through my halls

 

Michele Giorgi ft. Claude Monet. "Ninfee"


The girl who ran through my halls


The moment I saw you running in my halls

was when I knew that my love stalls.

A moment, elapsed, washes over us,

My final trope, where our eyes meet thus.

 

The burning sensation of inevitability washes over,

Rehearse my words and consider me no pushover.

Dwindle in dreams and reshape my quill,

Thus cut it out and let the blood spill.

 

Dance me to the eclipse’s end where you

Knew the cue for my heart’s true hue.

A company, your naked hand is sheer bliss,

A challenge to be lost in your eye’s abyss.

 

Now as my verses and lyrics run and roam your eyes

The twin flames that surround my poetry is no more;

Thus, I am free.

Have I no understanding of a girl

that burns the hand that writes?

But to burn within the gaze of your sight

is to reborn from my ashes, leaving behind dusk.

And just as night time approaches, my verse

like a beast, hunts the lady of a forest.

Fret not, as to tame my verse is to tame me

for long have I eluded

under the sight of a goddess I resided.

If, by chance, this poem reaches you

and strikes your heart’s locket

let the hands that unleashed it

be your visitors.

If, by any chance, I reach you

and armaments to conquer your heart

seeks no sword, but a quill,

Bystanders of love, I will step in

and my flock, now reborn, shall decorate your halls.

 

To see that you fit into me like a key

stepping into a lock may be a plea.

To enkindle an excitement long dead

was of old times dread, now spread.

 

Shall our halls coalescence to clash

the grand chandelier for a splash.

Let us soak wet within our dream

as our eyes triumphantly gleam.

 

Mortal coils we are, to love is to reimagine

And abandon the shell of compassion.

As I harness the stars off your hair and

see your gentle touch, a soul stunned.

 

Like a falling star, a kind spirit within

playing with strings of my heart’s violin.

As for a finale, demanding my heart’s valley,

A poem about my heart and its visitor therein. 

Pitter-patter. Gently.

For March 22, but who cares about dates?

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