Along this jagged fence, Iíve watched her walking,
Through the mums that lined, the well known brook.
Up to her noiseless mansion, to ardent labor,
To spin away the hours with her books.
Beneath her bonnet cap, her hair was auburn,
If not for pins would hang, at shoulder length.
Her skin more fair, than any flower blooming,
With eyes of hazel, seeping inner strength.
Her taunting figure, hid by common clothing,
Dressed down her beauty, for a plain review.
I knew beneath her gown a hidden treasure,
A goddess like no other that I knew.

She went to many places, in her studies,
To different oceans, she had walked the shores.
When her dreams were shaken, from their pages,
In moments she would go, again once more.
She walked the summits, of the tallest mountains,
After she had made, the rigorous climb.
She never had to dress, for the occasion,
For she always only went, inside her mind.
She had toured museums, in foreign countries,
Touched the smile that Mona Lisa wears.
In make believe worlds, is how she visits,
Through pages of her books she paid her fare.

In the novels of romance, her lovers visit,
Where sheís pursued by, the very best.
She drifts to sleep, while tasting passions flavor,
Yet itís still just a book that holds her breast.
She wakes in sweated pools, with thighs thatís burning,
Her quickened breath shakes her from her sleep.
She never gets to finish, what she started,
She always wakes just shy, of passions peak.
One more night, a different situation,
Another lover helps, her reach her goal.
She reads herself to sleep anticipating,
To wake alone unhappy growing old.

I spend my evenings, sitting beside her table,
I smell her fragrance, drifting through the room.
How can I find the words, I want to tell her,
About this love for her, my heart has bloomed.
I take my books and enter to my chamber,
But thoughts of her, consumes all of my dreams.
I wake before my love is finished with her,
I know Iíll never know what her love means.
Day after day we live our life together,
This silent mansion where we both file books.
Never to entwine our need for passion,
We only talk through casual passing looks.

By jrb

© 2005 jrb (All rights reserved)


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