oh, to see without my eyes

the calling of birds the rustling of leaves, the drowning of nights. amidst them sits you,  gods holy creation, painted. dear angel of mine, what is a heavenly, without you. blind beauty of mine, sit but effortlessly, in time you will see what the world may never. caressed love, the hand of alexander, upon the the blossoming bosom. young naive lover.

the first time that you kissed me

of the wailing nights cries, is a young song , hymn of calling. blessed bird of the sky, sing sorrowful songs for me , tunes of heavenly romance, for when i no longer live to stand , i may still lay within those endless embraces. sing that tune for me one last time , would you flutter it against me ,kiss me with its words.  speak it to me in glances. oh grand lover of mine.

Boundless by the time i cried

under bridges over softened waters, are the two soaked nymphs of hiding, and in their lust filled eyes are tears of the endless river. boughs of trees and leaves hung lazily over their grazing faces, and they, like hidden lovers in gods own forbidden garden, have found each other,  she, the solemn sculpture of david, the feasting onlooker of the second ,the nude naive woman. embraced endearingly in auguste’s kiss, the untimely lovers.

i built your walls around me

castles of a distant princes home, lay pleasantly upon a rolling hill. where trees and bushes make a painting sorrowed and shamed in the calling name of beauty. upon the garden ways road are resting tulips , carnations of gold.  from far away a distant sound begins its call, the toll of church bells in their own accustomed greeting, singing, in a secret call to the yonder palace.

white noise what an awful sound

yearning hummingbird on the shoulder branch of the willow, cry me  a song to fill my endless expanse, if i could have had song, hopefully its blessed tune be hummed by you,sing it endlessly into the expanse of ears, i  have grown just to listen. for on summers but warm mornings, where day is a  song and night is a strum of a lonely guitar, you are homely place.

fumbling by rouge river

tip toeing across the hunched branch of the weeping willow are two young callers of serenity. over the bare skin, draped are two white sleep dresses, ruffled shoulders and frocked bottoms, that in the presence of winds breath, flutter like wings. at still , they appear like dancers, on the waters edge, to river song, they frolic, in hopeless seeking of  the cold scent of summers morning dew

feel my feet above the ground

the grazing angel of the forest, in the white dress, is a romantic, a disheartened lover of all, who shall , in time seek her caller. she who lives to breathe the air of the tall grasses of the prairie, where upon she shall run and roll amidst its warm grazes.weeping tears of joys from its soft tickles upon the bottoms of her feet, which delicately run along the pathway to the red farmhouse. Upon such road are hung the harmonious of all sounds makers, she has found her caller. in the returning glance of the chimes, is a hidden beautifully curved face ,of she. the single lover of upmost grandeur.

hand of god deliver me

from days long past  and blue nights of coming, stands one cherished. loved by the tips of winters leaves and springs early rains. by kisses of summers sweltered days and cacophonous winds of autumns nearing. by forests of dewy scent and princes of yonder distant lands. she is placed endearingly , with the hand of god upon , the stoop of my perch. she is loved and harmonious. she is the wind chimes on their fairest day, she is a calling of many days unheard. she is what lovers like i have written for. oh sweet lover of mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

good tidings, ye who chose to read my darling. This is a series of hidden callings written just for me. ‘Tis a love letter written in complete adoration of the angel,  the statue of David’s onlooking admirer. If you are a romantic soul, listen endearingly , for this piece is also written for you. Sufjan Stevens. Mystery of love. It is among the lines : it is not hidden for it is meant to be seen and heard. Venture to hear it in guitar strums as you, my grand reader chose. Joy be with you all.

                 yours lovingly, 

                                                                                            Paromitha