She Is Near... Poem by Thomas Foreman

She is near…

Come to the iron gates, Child

Just out of reach, she lays curled in suffered meaning
A hollow love forbids another day in tendful leaning
Her slumbering heart grieves in desolate exhaust
A craving innocence in deafening loss
A life once painted in joyful affair
Subtle eyes have since spoken fair
Perfect was her play in chiming desire
An empathic assertion in twisted conspire
Her soft fingers waver faintly in grip
A mindless touch in paining slip

She is near…

These gates will always remain unlatched as long as
Your approach is morally lustral or
As freely clear