a minstrel’s hymn

Sorrow dressed in arabesque tresses
Upon a slender evening gown,
Queen of a dream world she is
Lifeless, yet truly animated,
A ballroom lit with starsong light

I am not so perspicacious
As I might ask myself to be,
My words are not so deft
To be recited in her dreams

I softly whisper in her ear
The lines of a minstrel’s hymn,
A hymn I scribed by dark of night
Beneath a waning moon

“Masque I thee mote
Upon thee I dote,
Mine with thine
Thine times nine,
Hastily we make respite
And dwelleth we within these winds,
My beloved Colleen,
Mine with thine
And thine times nine.”

Six serpentine candles flicker with life,
As she awakens from her deepest slumber
And hears me for the first time

No healing hand do I poses,
In my arms she still shivers so,
I wipe the tears from her pallid face
And replace them with my own,
Yet I dare not say, I fear…
If I opened my eyes,
Would she still be there?

The two lonely ones,
So profound are the things they need to say,
Yet so much is left unsaid.