Her Song

An artist with prohibitive aptitude and flair, one would dare say
Sixtyish, masculine, gregarious to some; with that intrinsic way
On occasion, there's the love for a pint or two
A compulsion or maybe for fun, who really knew
Perceived as provocative, thorny by few; misconstrued by all
He lives in mystic hues of gray to blue; sketched in a slow song

He walks a path compelled by one; that is the love for his dog.
Enters, her life in the most casual way, bearing a picture to her song.
Lenient and masculine, I must reveal, 
his intensity laments as sunspots collapse into voids of incandescent spears.
The tone of his voice, the stories and all, she craves the whole bit and more. 
He’s important to her in a simple way, as a rose bud to the sun it adores.

She prays that dreams come true today,
and that time splashes elation, I’d say.
As life blesses us all each morning we rise,
The precious gift in breathing deeply and being alive,
and her spirit spans the vastness in his soul, a treacherous forbidden bog,
seeking in finality to love and be loved by he that crossed into her song.
Diana Mary Sharpton © 2022 all rights reserved