She Was (Nothing) But A Poem..

She began as a coin dropped
in a wishing well by a hopeful man,
his heart aflame for what he
couldn’t touch,
swirling in currents
he could hardly understand,
and she, a waif, beginning
only upon his desirous pleas,
that, so alive, she had never wanted
this to be.

So she was summoned from
the depths, blue and dark,
where unknowns lay like
dormant plants in root form.
Her spring wore Narcissi
in bloom along her frail wrists ---
Her frame was breakable but
her heart wasn’t for it was
wrought from stone,
deep within the earths plunderings
when man found her.

In man’s dreams she arose
ethereal and light with transparency.
Her light blues wore white in her
nonexistent glory as she
grew wings slowly,
one vein at a time.
What flowed was substance never
created by any God ---
Oh, man, I cannot know your
meanderings but to not know
whom I really am.

Poetically she smiled,
erupting lavender musings
that became visions of a future ---
Man so led the little girl
into her pastels of mint green
and innocent pinks and corals;
how his thoughts tainted her
yet she remained pure,
here in his covetings;
in the crystalline capsule
of his mind.

By night she wandered
the barren folds of expectations
and a worlds language
while he slept,
writing her own journey
while his pen lay still.

She searched far and wide for
a way to be understood,
but she then returned to her
cocoon in waiting for the man
to evoke her.
She had no identity to show,
no self to lay claim to, she was
in theory, his alone.

How she wanted, in this way
to be owned by him, for him
to grasp her heart as it beat,
to a God-source unfounded
by anything real.

Oh, man, give birth to me
for my wings grow heavy,
within, set me free,
for I shall always return to you
in winters and springs sleeping
among the growing things.

You will only know me
to flutter your heart
and soften the stings
of the worlds cruelties,
of people and their follies,
and I will alight you as you sleep
so within will you know me,
as so without will you write of me.

It was in these moments she
was born in the man’s tales,
a pastel rainbow from a well
of unknowns and intangibles.
How she molded herself to him
and became his hearts desire.

Yet, she was but a poem;
a plot conspired in
lucid dreams and sunlit instants
of this emerging centerpiece --
To write of her is to love her.

How the man craved her
illusive revelations of
himself in her;
how this was how he wanted to
love her ---
Passionately, fervently,
and in every word he could find.

But the words were never
quite enough to form her completely;
her gauzy presence eluded him.
Her white face was but a
ghastly apparition of
himself fading, aging.

And as the little girl grew
and became wise,
she surrounded him in
dissolution and disenchantment.
Her wisdom was of the ages as
her eyes became hollow, dark and empty
as the wordless peace
was a blizzard of cold reconnaisance
falling on a frozen landscape of
the man’s hidden potential.
And under it lay her,
unborn and unfound and unformed ---
Encased in crystal pools in his mind.

And in the deep well where
fluidity is constant,
so do man’s covetings dwell ---
So does the man ever return
to where gravitates
all unanswerable wishes,
all the Worlds loose change.
As he gazed into the wishing well,
the countless pennies
became his tears.