A Kind Of Tale Poem by John Michael Elritz Gallo

The tale of a young girl
Of love with which bore to its opposite
Kept ringing in my thoughts
And eventually curtained its ego.

Yet the very details has its roots
Now teasing, tickling, calling my name
In every space between seconds of time
But forbearing was I: confused.

My heart speaks, my mind debates,
My soul rushes, my body at rest.
I was running in circles, flame on my feet,
But ‘twas winter in my wrinkle.

Colors have paled through my vision.
Finally, victory has dwelt in me.
My voice was lifted yet in silence.
Only my hand spoke in never returning.

On paper, the tale of a young girl
Has sunk in lucidly bold.
Strokes so vivid, so enticing
Soon it travels to fancy of beings.

On the first day, the girl first fell.
Her heart was in earthquake.
Her mind was in storm.
Her eyes were the sun.
Her face was an apple.
Her lips were red roses
Embracing white pearls
Which were glimmering
With the sensation engendered
By the curve of her smile.

Heels over head, she stared at a horse
Galloping through the jungle of the city.
He was then on its hind legs with full bearing
Somewhat showing off, his eyes tantalizing.

The girl shortened her distance from him
Taking tiny steps along the weeds
But then her mind was soon divided
And her tiny steps became long jumps away.

A Greek tale intertwined
With a little humor as the relish-
A penetration to their story
That wantonly ends in a tragedy.

She never kenned she was Thisbe
Nor the horse was the one, Pyramus.
Both abode was disunited by just a thin wall.
The difference: there was no hole at all.

She was greatly, so badly unwitting
To meet the horse with her naked heart.
The horse dashed to hide behind an opaque glass
Mind stirred, for just a fellow she is to him.

The thin wall was then merely nothing
That divide the sky from soil.
The sky wailed and showered her tears
But the soil refused to catch the rain.

Seasons unfold bidding goodbyes
Still both spirit were puzzled
But every so often, they realized
A flicker of magic there may be.

But the girl immigrated to her reverie.
Lying to her own soul, she told herself,
“Just a garden was my heart when I let him in,
I’m wrathful when he said it’s heaven.”

A million the clock ticked and tocked,
Not the slightest touch of mystic
Whispered.
Tulips of gold among the rubies
Just wilted without farewells.

With time so impotent of turns and tides,
Summer, taking its sweet time, turned to spring.
Their eyes met falteringly,
A painting of two hearts, there can be.

Tomorrow is another page to unfold,
Of enchantments, whichever soon to astound.
The tale of the young girl, wistfully
At this part will have its finale.