There she stands,
Queen of my dreams –
her eyes –
twin lighthouses for
my storm-tossed soul . . .
Her tresses flirt
with the wayward wind –
coaxed air makes a lair in her hair . . .
I will watch the moon leave its hiding,
I will watch as nighttime falls,
I will watch her heart and read therein,
The beauty of it all . . .
Here, I stand,
washed by her eye’s pool.
Here, I bow – captured – a slave,
not conquered by a sword – but a look.
