Every burning fibre of my being yearns
To take your weary face between my open palms,
Lift your blinding shrouds and gently
Tilt your head heavenward.
Yet I would not, though it pains me. Nay, not for all the world.
For you endure, graceful one-
Strong, despite every and all of the odds. Unaided.
Your form self-braced, leaning heavily on the epicentre of your art.
Yet still I yearn to lay you down your Lyre,
Bear you upwards and point aloft:
For within your bonds you neither see nor feel the multitudes
That adoringly watch and worship you, resting on their own orbs.
I shall not disturb the bliss of your strumming solitude,
For I see that as you pluck melodies for yourself
You are gathering, as a tide, rising
To lift yourself, and plot new courses.
Soon. You will lift that veil,
Throw your head to the heavens and be bathed in starlight.
New harmonies will flow over you as warm water,
As new souls sing to you from their curving orbits.
Strings and heartstrings shall knit together,
Grow taught, commune with swirling ellipses,
As yet unknown to you-
Yet soon to be embraced.
© Tom Tide 2016