In the pale moon’s whisper, I met a maiden fair,
Her name, a secret—call her Jenny, if you dare.
She was of passion’s fever, a tempest wild and free,
And in the hush of midnight, she beckoned unto me.
In a quiet chamber, by the candle’s gentle gleam,
She held a book of pages, where dreams dance and scheme.
“Would you, Ma’am, waste a moment, in the shadowed, velvet night?”
Her gaze, a flame of longing, did set my soul alight.
She led me to her castle, where all was soft and dim,
The air was thick with silence, as we danced on the whim.
She whispered, “Sign here, dearest, where the ink meets the soul,”
And then, the world did shudder, as she claimed her tender toll.
Oh, Jenny, sweet Jenny, your kiss a burning brand,
In the spinning world of rapture, I was lost to your command.
What she did, I cannot utter, for words would surely fail,
But my heart, forever altered, now sings a different tale.
When dawn’s tender fingers brushed the sky with rosy hue,
I woke to find her vanished, the night wind cold and true.
But on the stair, a promise, writ in haste and fire’s ink,
“Call me when the night is dark, and you’re yearning on the brink.”
Oh, Jenny, dearest Jenny, return to me once more,
For the dance we started in the night is now a craving sore.
But the Lord, He watches over, and soon His light will shine,
Yet in this fleeting moment, I would have you, still, be mine.
:: 08.16.2024 ::
E.P. Robles | Poetry 