MYSTICAL

Dowries and teardrops, passed down as pearls;
Ribbons and sunsets for aspiring romantics...
Girls... and the women who steal them -- the lavender swirls
take form as birds... then fly to their mark.
Yet still remains the innocence of cast and hue -- my coloured moods:
shades befitting the gold that is you.
The red of heart; both within and above;
mine is the perch where sits a dove...
Under loving gaze--the dove, she coos...

Wind under wings, two souls take flight;
Hers is a splendour, both hot and bright,
which embraces a crown and provides me a throne;
The dove, with her radiance, sets flame to the night;
A kingdom established with her and then grown:
Her songs...
The last entwinement -- our enchanted tones...

There is no beauty such as hers:
She sings the colours of her eyes; her smile reveals the complexities
found
in the greatest symphonies written.

The girl who became the dove... she belongs to me.

2001 Jon Mychal