She does not comb her hair;
she sinks into the tangles,
the snarled memories of
this August wasteland.
The man she loves is a vagrant,
as reliable as the temperamental sea
of her bird’s nest hair.
As she sits, she hears his laughter;
his lips meander across her skin
as she recalls his touch buried between
the strands colored like rusted bark.
He loathes the lull of the ocean
against the determined shores of her emotions,
and she detests the length of the distance
from his rationality to his dreams.
And yet she loves him still,
caught up in his vagabond attachments
like a siren trapped between
a lighthouse and a ship.
His magic is magnificent,
a shadow of the brilliance of Merlin,
and she cannot control the violence
of her stubborn adoration.
She is his Morgan, condemned
to the kingdom of normalcy.
All she wants is
to return to Avalon.
Comments
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Love seems so hard, yet our emotions are so stubborn, and we walk out into the storm with no umbrella intp the overflown banks of a raging river just to feel the soothing waters against our skin before we are swept away by the tide to lie half drown upon the shore.
And some would thing "What does not kill me....", and dive back into the cold waters to swim home.
I like the visual beauty of your words, and the allusions to Arthturian legend as a metaphor to the farie tale and magic of romance/love.
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