Fate Of One Language Unspoken Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

Quite smitten she smolders,
in deceptions wild serenade;
drawn sensually,
to a jades lithe and playful masquerade;
backed under, and into a word,
falls hot rhyming cascades;
pre-employed as a child,
behind a tall, damask rose palisade.

Shadowy mirth gathers round her,
in life's septic dance;
wistfully swung onto,
a word stalkers hypnotic trance;
encircled in beauty,
shorn of a love's bountiful tranche;
she is crouched,
in a soul languishing, sorrowful, stance.

In the hearing of her heartache,
one sensing shall find;
the loss of love's meaning,
in a life losing depression sublime;
cloaked ravishingly draped,
in her sphere now Empyrean;
yet lost to the promised paradise,
of the Fields of Elysian.

One's language,
lost to the age of Paradisiacal innocence;
bound by beasts laughing,
in fiery thunderous resonance;
locked fast in a crypt,
crying out with sonorousness;
tied tight to the straying souls,
of the sons of Iapetus.

Thoughts flow through a new language,
although unspoken;
in a mist lost between two lives,
now living as tokens;
conquered by fates chance,
for existence transcendental;
we battle with closed lips,
against beings so judgmental.