The Glory of her Tresses
Few sing of raven’s ebony,
Fewer still of its shining plume,
The glory of her grey tresses
Oft glisten my life’s every gloom.
Now that the dawn has turned to dusk,
I’ll not talk of bowers in bloom,
Nor buds that blossomed before time,
How her fragrance had filled the room.
No use nursing old memories,
Nor yet wiping them off with broom,
Soul dwells nigh in heart’s cavity,
A lifetime’s taken, it to groom.
Black is no colourless baffle,
A total loss nor is vacuum
Let it not dwell in a spectrum,
To me it signifies no doom.
Fair in life never to assume,
And nor presence nor absence fume,
As life tolerates no vacuum,
With her musings I fill my room.
Should things fail t’be so, I’d not fume,
It’s fair in life oft to assume,
And never to leave a vacuum,
Let musings fill up a bare room.
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Musings |16.04.2024| memories, black love
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