Her hands were the silver mastery
The settled dwelling that I cradled
And marked the common fantasy against
Creating halo masterpieces
With the fingertips of a soldiered woman
Entering with drums and ten thousand
Gallant knights
All hailing her with golden glory
The silk tears of a matriarchal
Moan - she orchestrates her interwoven colours
And sends her tapestries as treaties of peace
To the men who only knew of red tainted wars
Echoing the silently mysterious stares
Of an enchanting sorceress
Her worn yet wise palms
Quench the impossible thirsts of lands
Who have not seen her pearl drenched
Tears for many moons:
Her creations shelter them in the wickedly
Dark pit of their nights.
A contest entry
- Weaving by CarolDesjarlais.
600 points, ended May 25, 2008, 9 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Well penned !
I enjoyed reading this poem. Your imagery takes the reader on an amazing journey...Excellent
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Bravo!
How strong yoy paint this figment of your own
imagination! How powerful she is!
I would haf or quarter of her strength!
'Of an enchanting sorceress
Her worn yet wise palms
Quench the impossible thirsts of lands'
perhaps you give her too much power?
But that is not mine too judge dear Anthony!
Come fly with me into who knows what!
Let me sing you a song!
"Of an enchanting sorceress......"
Life is short and we are here....
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Wow what imagery scrolls from this poem...it as if I can almost see who this is, almost see her shroud, her face......beatuifuly penned.
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