in days gone by

in days gone by
there was bright blue sky
& carolling clouds & sun that shone
amidst this beauty the Weaver walked alone
sometimes she sang, mostly she thought
& she was happy more often than not
watching everything with a wary writer’s eye
silently seeking an answer to the eternal question:
why?

in days gone by
lived an aging monarch
dying lion in a tower in a city out of place
& every day his mirror revealed
another line bisecting his face
vividly he recalled the taste of old dangers
as he grew old surrounded by
sycophants & strangers
who do not know him, who do not care
that he dreams of a Weaver with jet-black hair

in days gone by
the Weaver would dance
through streets & square
oblivious to point & stare
slanted eyes searching for those who knew
& weren’t afraid to join her retinue
but she was luckless, the city’s inhabitants pluckless
misunderstood, she was mocked & taunted
yet she danced & wove, undaunted

in days gone by
the aging monarch mourned
struggling vainly to recapture the kingdom
where love in him was born
he is moody & melancholy, wondering if this is all
groaning beneath the weight of the script
that orchestrates his fall
pleading & praying to the deities above
that at his life’s end he’s granted
one more chance to love

in days gone by
the Weaver lost heart
she could find no one who’d listen
to the tales she had to tell
the townsfolk sneered & scoffed at her
resistant to her spell
so she packed her poems & potions
& set off for distant lands
enraged but resolute she leaves, with ne’er a backward glance
for she is still the Weaver & her faith is still in Chance

in days gone by
the monarch’s eyes grew dim
his soul was cold
late one night he quit his kingdom
seeking someone warm to hold
he cast off his robes of ermine, & tossed aside his crown
tormented by terrible thoughts as he trod the stony ground
bewildered & bitter, his royal heart was in despair
then the wondrous words of the Weaver
floated to him through the air

she sang of ships that sailed the seas
& slaves that killed their masters
of love that brought one to their knees
& the squander of piasters
& creatures that did terrorize the Lost Boy of the bog
maidens with mesmerizing eyes whose lovers dwelt in fog
she sang of all these things & more
in a voice sultry & strong
& the monarch rejoiced that he had found
that which he’d sought for so long

with agéd voice he spoke to her, laying bare all his woes
how he’s hounded by fear & futility
as his useless life comes to a close
he’s lost the desire for food & drink
& fleshly delights are past
on Death he wastes neither thoughts nor fear
accepting those die as cast
“But I pray,” he pleads,
“Grant me one wish – to lie with you at my last.”

the Weaver’s gentle soul is touched, & her heart is kind
she takes the monarch by the hand, & leads him like one blind
to the center of the enchanted wood
tall trees with leaves like lace
on the mossy bed where they recline, she reveals her secret face
& he gazes on her glory, his old eyes red & bleary
& she sings to him & kisses him
‘til he’s no longer weary

in days gone by
an abdicated king &
a Weaver with jet-black hair
dwelt in an enchanted wood
& lived lives free from care
no thought they gave to the outside world
no wish had they to go back
pleased by each other’s presence
of love they had no lack
& they grew old together
untroubled by cold or storm
& when at last the monarch died
he did so in arms that were warm

copyright © 2014 KPM

the poet

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