For someone who claims to be a tomboy, I have been writing a lot of romantic stuff I guess...my first attempt at romantic poem...wondering if a story on the same lines would be a good idea...
Childlike eyes, a dimpled smile,
A stranger close to my heart, I see, in the crowd.
Her face, one in many, a part of an array, yet seraphic,
Blinds me with love, love at first sight.
A chord struck in my heart, deep,
An unheard melody, my heart strums.
The gaze meets, holds and leaves,
A force unseen tugs at my heart, firm.
A mark left, so strong, it pains not to think,
As she lingers on, her gaze, dream like.
She turns, soulful eyes look at me in awe,
A gentle smile, playing on her lips, her petal like lips.
A whisper leaves her lips, like a statue poised, she stays,
A feather like touch, her fingers, my face feels.
My heart brimmed with joy, jumps, running wild,
Yet plunges down, as her fingers drop.
I wish to hold her close, close to my heart,
Whisper to her my love, my yearning for her.
“A torrent unforeseen, in the parched land, my life...”
“My window to joy, my love, you are...”
I wish to confess unabashed, with a kiss to seal,
My love, my desire, my adoration for her.
I wish to lead her away gentle, hold her hand in mine,
To sing to her, show her a world, for us, just her and me.
“And here you see...” my reverie breaks,
As the chaperon speaks, yet again...
“Is the famous portrait, much acclaimed...”
Myself, the subject, to be mused on yet another time.
“Lord of this Manor, he was, deceased, young of age, ”
“Few days past his third decade he didn’t cross”.
The chaperon drones on, his voice bored, yet another time.
The scripted words spilt, a chore, his source of living.
My abode, no longer my home, but an arena,
An arena of past, antiquities and my fruitless life.
Yet I stay on, silent, a soul trapped in an image, a frame,
A spectator, of seasons swept by.
A witness to throngs of faces that moved past me,
I was, but mere, a pleasant face, lauded for.
A beloved companion, a bride I had sought for, in life,
Yet, here I found, the face I waited for, a century late.
I long to reach out, take her hand, call her my own,
Alas, powerless, a mere wisp of haze I would ever be.
Prisoner to a smiling face, a fixture, I stand,
My heart heavy, eyes forlorn, I look on and sigh.
My beautiful stranger, the face I sought for, found a century late,
She walks away, walks away into oblivion, never to be mine.
P.S: It would be great if you guys could tell me what I need to improve on. Thanks...