Every twist and turn
Makes me hold you more tightly.
You can’t get away.
You know you are safe.
No matter where you may go.
I have to hold on.
Twist and slide, knowing
That I can always find you.
You can not get lost.
We are made this way.
Like hand and glove we are made.
That’s how well we fit.
But sleek, one shape as wondrously soft,
More perfect in its drape than might one think;
And such, should be perfection held aloft,
That by this, would its height so make one sink.
For perfectly it thwarts ones every thought;
So pliant-smooth it courts by its design,
That brought so every instinct as it ought;
Requires nary thought to intertwine.
More alien than truly might one guess;
As fell another species though from sky;
Alighted grace, such beauty as would bless
The altar of my sleep, this place whereby,
As master and as slave, I feel anew;
Each moment strave my every wish come true!
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
From thy rib, He made–
More natural and dare-say far more pleasing–
Perhaps too, life’s proper side.
How can it be that three such friends are blest
With symmetry sublime, doth fit with grace?
What joy, when maketh bonds, that do they see
Such lives so delicately interlace?
So beautifully sinful are they pressed
As each to one another, as they dance;
Yet faithful, and sublime felicity,
Doth somehow over all and each advance.
When first I saw them, to myself, professed
That they, with all my strength, would I protect;
And swore, to this, an oath of secrecy
An any, give me aid, must needs respect;
And thank Whate’er professéd deity
Who brought to light these blesséd, lucky, three.
Whatever would the strictest consequence?
Whenever whimsy doth mee, for to take;
Where never doth reality abide.
Is it starlight–doth shimmer down from sky,
Bereft of cloud, that doth pretend such grace?
And is it moonlight, floating down, as show
She doth, configuration’s subtle face–
As though, to cover all, she doth thereby
Intrude, and douse these tiny candles–cool,
As her reflection, ripples undergo,
With counter-sparkle in a quiet pool?
Is it lamplight–that doth she overfly
From out a window, for its calm, perform?
Or is it firelight, setting us aglow,
For which she doth abound, surrounding warm?
Her hand, doth she, Romantic, try her charm
Protecting us from storm, and so from harm.
Starlight–pretending grace;
Moonlight–intruding cool:
Configuration’s subtle face
Reflecting in a quiet pool.
Lamplight–embracing calm;
Firelight–surrounding warm:
Romanticism’s gentle hand
Protecting us from harm.
David Emeron: Sonnets 