Traveling Soul

Anticipation,
Delay,
Frustration,
Pray,
Wait,
Sigh,
Appetite Sate,
In bed lie,
In the morning new,
Start the course,
Anticipation renew,
Hope is a limitless Resource.

Crushed Flowers Bleed

Curled up in bed,
Red stain of what she bled,
Dried upon the sheets,
Her dress no longer neat pleats,
Lies in a heap upon the floor,
As she stares is silence at the door.
Why?
Why did he lie,
And say he would care,
Why did she dare,
To believe his words,
Which now pierce like swords.
He spoke of love and affection,
Now he shows her naught but rejection.
He promised love in unending shower,
In return for her blooming flower,
But after the cloth is pulled,
Revealing damsel to the cold,
After flower is crushed,
Sweaty moments are rushed,
The brave knight,
Proves naught but flighty Wight.
T’was no high man noble,
Who tore her self same named bobble.
He is a vagrant and fool,
Who would use like a tool,
This kind damsel,
Who in desperation did sell,
Her flesh for affection.
But was not an economic defection.
She exchanged a gift for love,
But rather than soft silken glove,
T’was rough and course which groped.
Her longing heart was roped,
Not by the truth,
But the lies of these uncouth,
Vagrants who disposed,
Of her once their lusts we reposed.
She fears she is naught but a pretty face,
That she bears no other grace,
And thus falls into this cycle again,
With such same men…
But she will no longer be treated like mud,
No longer will her sheets have blood,
From rough nights,
Nor her heart frights,
For her Father sends one,
To whom she may run,
A man noble in heart,
Whose character is a work of art,
As much as the flesh upon his frame,
Who will never play a game,
With her affection,
Who will be for her, perfection.
She must simply trust and wait,
For the day her Father chooses to sate,
Her deep need,
For which she did bleed,
The need for love,
Which every heart craves above,
Any other sustenance,
And many a soul throws to chance.
Wait young maiden,
For in that day, then,
You will be satisfied,
And your heart will not weep and hide.

The Rose Eternal

The rose eternal,
Blooming in this world infernal,
Soft and delicate is its bloom,
As a baby fresh from womb.
This rose trampled by man and beast,
Treated as if it were the least,
Of all blooming buds,
Crushed beneath feet which thud,
Heavily upon the pastoral ground,
A dolorous morose sound.
This rose trampled down,
Then woven into a thorny crown.
This rose placed upon a brow,
Oh but some may yet see how,
This act is a strange irony,
For they know things which yet are and be,
That this rose is the rose of Sharon,
They are in fact type and anti-type, one.
The rose trampled on the ground,
The man who was bound,
For our sin.
And died for all men.