The Falling Maples- Living Unconditionally- Poetry by S.S

Oh Dear One, How saccharine can be,  the enchanted reminiscences, A saddlebag of charismatic glee, and a veiled harmony, across the fences, What lies shrouded in the depths of transcendence, a milieu of hermetic boding, an invisible candle of mystical cadence, and a maudlin, yet esoteric bonding, Must you know,  the true ways of an idyllic romance, It is an allegiance, upon which the celestial bestowes, the blessing of a ceaseless adoration's trance.... (c) S.S

Why such a dearth of emotional streams, that the veins now run dry from glistening dreams, There were times when the rivers advanced unstoppably, Like a flood of words torrenting cataclysmicly Is it what we call a temporal respite? Or perhaps it is a momentary blinding of a poet's foresight, a slumber from the burden of the worldly and the spectral, sending an odist, in a rejuvenating poetic lull.........                                ~S.S~

Through the stony trails which unstoppably quiver, Flows the wistful silent river, Poignant and distressed, vibrant surface, ruling the layer of dispiritedness, Frantically streaming, dreading the disagreeable terrains, all it seeks, is a permanent escape, from the worldly disdain, To exist itself is a tempestuous fight, Midst which, each drop seeks the perpetual One Light, Impertinent it is, how the bruising path, pierces through its heart, 'Cause to still progress through the course, is a rare art, It is this mauling continuation, that makes it fleetingly agile, It's a shame how the world can make a hushed river into Tumultuous Nile.........                                         ~S.S~

They have their own seasons, they call you theirs, for a reason, Sometimes they are yours, At other times, the bond becomes frozen, They mingle, they laugh, it's a rare art, lips utter something, while there's venom in the heart, They think they're forever, Least do they realise, they have already scattered.... (c) S.S

I wonder if it is the muse, that she must submerse in, Or the words that are born, must she bathe in? The essence of her phrases, rests in the rising morrows, they fall with the winter dew drops, and in the tears of her sorrows, She wakes up every morning, to the scent of his fragrant breaths, He who stirs the poetess in her, and is all her verses' meth, She adores his very being, which instills poetry in her existence, Upholding her from the material subsistence to a spiritual continuance........ (c) S.S

Slipping in the darkness, of an impermeable night, She immerses, into the uncharted depths, Of his charismatically clairvoyant sight, And in that quiet, massed wintery fog, She spills the pearl of words, beaming bright, Scattered upon the pages, Which she lovingly calls, Frosty Twilight.......                           S.S

It was a quiet night, her soul slipped through her body, into the stars of the twilight, She would die with every day, With the sun's last ray's fading light, In her sleep, Her spirit wandered free, Into the misty tranquil woods, Her fingers touching every tree, But tonight, wasn't like every night, A swirl of a finger, pulled her back, At first she was aghast, eyes full of fright, And then she saw the ever enigmatic, wizard's eyes, Was it an illusion or was is true? The dilemma was shattered, as she felt his hands, swiftly running through, With a black ink and and eagle's feather, The wizard seemed to be penning, around her navel, some letters, She stayed still, lost into his magical artistry, all she could fathom, were the racing fingers, The subject, was still a mystery, As the morrow's first rays glistened, She saw her soul hurl back, and her frame stiffened, I saw her as I looked into the mirror, A chant written, around...