What to write

It was of a Monday when the lights came over the sun and the moon was just a memory not long forgotten and she held his hand by resting her head on his shoulder. No sleep had been enjoyed since love had been engaged upon with vigour and gentle touch under a moonless night. Never once from the beginning had he entered her body with the absence of a warmth in his heart which spread beyond the logic of his mind to delve deep beyond the locked chasms of his soul. A part of him he would have have denied existing but which he always held a secret hope of eventually discovering: she was beyond his reach in the normal course of human interactions with a beauty he would hold in his heart until the day its final beat lapsed his never ending regrets into the calm repose of nothingness. Somehow his words had transcended the physical inequality of their respective positions in the potential romantic pecking order of human interactions to allow for moments to be shared which would transform the world from one of drudgery to a place where the rainbow of the dragonfly’s wings sprinkled its magic along the yellow brick road of his destiny and he knows somehow hers too from the look in her eye and the smell in the air and the sound of her body.

The moon cast its trail painting a memory along the river under the bridge where he imagined grasshoppers playing fiddles among the dew drops of a morning capable and indeed willing to change the man he could ever be from such a silent morning onwards. Evolution expedited from a multi generational phenomenon to the wonderful instantaneous transformation of true love

As much as the field of daffodils did for a man of words so the moment would in vacant or in pensive thought be for ever the place he would revisit constantly to languish in a love beyond his highest expectations or imaginations.

To be continued…….

The most I’ve written in so long in a prose style. Words spilling from inside not sure of their origin but knowing the validity of their truth and the warmth of the image. Where do the words ever come from but once they start they refuse to stop there need to be set free only matched by my addiction to hear what they have to say. Voices in my mind would they have locked us in the home for the bewildered once of a not too far distant time. I promise myself to indulge with the keyboard on Saturday. What am I without my words but a beast roaming who has forgotten the beauty of the pen

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