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My heart was full of thistles,
My mind was sacred dew,
I stymied and pranced about,
Yet you fought your way through.
To the keep you carried me,
High upon your steed.
In the castle bower we sank,
Drunk on lover’s mead.
Your hands were rough as leather
Tracing Midsummer’s Eve,
Your lips, sweet destiny cake
Startling in their reprieve.
A tight fragrant bud,
Soft petals of my rose,
Spreading in the mist,
Lying upon shed clothes.
You took me to the altar,
Whispering the sacred oath.
Before humanity’s holy cross,
I plight to thee my trouthe.
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This poem appears in my collection, "Fluidity of Creation: Poetry of Love, Loss, and the Occult."
Reviews of "I Plight to Thee"
New Poetry by Dena L. Moore
Sandie Angel :o) / May Lu $*_*$