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Tempest Where is she now, my Tempest; temptress. Who howls out her rage, with a beautiful scowl of gray expression. Her fingers through my hair and upon my brow. How can I forget my Tempest calling with a voice slender as the wind. I would lie down in fields where your arms sweep wide and far. I would love you forever, though you were not mine, you would slip through my fingers, fading like clouds in the sky. Oh my sweet lady, more oft she visits in the night, weeping her tears, and moaning her siren song beyond my window. Clinging to my body, and playing upon my soul She calls me with promise of freedom from persecution, and limitless cleansing, whispering her sweet tales, of far shores and journies long old. She is flawless in her sky's surroundings and more free from me than the birds on the wing. So long for now my tempest. |