Tempt the temptress, her former lucid life,
where round and about the memories
her behaviour once was rife,
and haunting her, within her sheets
is music sounding on repeat,
that jingle jangle, emotive, replete,
hanging on the edge,
fumbled footsteps on a road so steep,
into history these words shall keep.
Taunt not the woman for being dumb-
founded by the options before her,
numb, was she, her vision pure,
or so it seemed,
far less than demure.
But undertaking the melody is syncopation,
unexpected haunting dreams,
the -ah-ah-ah of off-beat rhythms,
heartbeat pounds, beating mallets,
her ribcage is the prison.
Because it was her heart that was the cause,
the prisoner, too, so wondrous yet lost,
yearning for that which should come to be,
would it ever be? Her soulmate, would she see?
Understanding there are many out there,
available to pick-her-apart,
and knowing that which would also drive,
sending her mind and pulse, alive, alive!
But it was required, really,
that her baggage be left,
at the entranceway before her path
could be walked yet,
reaching, open arm, open hand,
open palm,
for someone to love her,
and him in return.
The bittersweet madness of the executed times
would send her cursed tale
forward, centre, and front,
but care little would the true one,
the one who will decide to watch her with
widened, adoring eyes,
sweep her in his arms and enliven himself
with her wit, her truth, her character, intelligence,
and charms,
no excuses, no lies.
She does not boast, she knows truly within,
she’s worth much more than bad behaviour
experiences,
expletives within!
Wipe away times of hurt,
unappreciative, taunting words,
moving forth to the future,
where she won’t ever need to call for anything,
anyone,
yearning? No, hear her, watch her eyes learn.
Goodness will come to those who listen
at every turn.
Copyright © 2021 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved.
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