Wessik
Well-known member
The Mountain Maeden
Once, I climbed up the old rocky slope
of a mountain where lovers in mourning might go.
The hour the summit was breached,
long slender blue fingers outreached
and clasped to my cotton white cloak.
I froze like the tundra and let out a croak!
There I saw, so draped in mists, the form:
The slender young figure of woman forlorn.
Yet through her my heart could have no respite,
the tenderest muscle then stopped at her sight,
and always, as always, I'd mourn.
Nevertheless, she came close to my chest,
and uttered her love, as she gently caressed
all the wounds of my bodily form.
Yet still, I possessed no honor nor rest,
as even she asked me to fondle her breast.
And though she did moan, I could not divest
the thought of my love, or eject from my chest
the thought of my sweet summer home.
Such full admiration left no consecration
to doubt, yet still I would flout, not far go without
the fever my love still instated in me.
The maeden, however, would suffer no power
to share her young soul without fee,
upon the good hour, rejecting all flowers
presented by me so she'd leave.
Instead of such grace, she lowered her face,
and desperately tugged at my sleeve.
She wanted, nay, needed the bloom of my seed,
but also desired the ringing of bells,
to always be ringing with happy white glee!
And though I suspect, that though I confess,
a pregnant young maeden I might have concieved,
I'd always respect what she couldn't believe,
that once married once, I couldn't just leave.
No nights would I stand in this foggy old hill,
no shiver nor freeze could bend my strong will.
The twilight of moon continued until
the dew of her eyes burst forth so tearfully.
The dark of her hair then contested, "unfair!"
She sank to her knees, and pleaded with pleas.
Existence, to her, I finally inferred, was subject
only to me. Yet though this I could see,
So chilled was the breeze, and lonely the wood,
that only I thought of the warmth of the sun.
And only I thought of where else I could run.
For lovely the maeden might certainly be,
but only my lover may claim over me,
(and only my lover may swallow my seed).
* * *
I kind of wrote this one as a joke, a long time ago. I thought it would be nice as an example of some of my work.
Once, I climbed up the old rocky slope
of a mountain where lovers in mourning might go.
The hour the summit was breached,
long slender blue fingers outreached
and clasped to my cotton white cloak.
I froze like the tundra and let out a croak!
There I saw, so draped in mists, the form:
The slender young figure of woman forlorn.
Yet through her my heart could have no respite,
the tenderest muscle then stopped at her sight,
and always, as always, I'd mourn.
Nevertheless, she came close to my chest,
and uttered her love, as she gently caressed
all the wounds of my bodily form.
Yet still, I possessed no honor nor rest,
as even she asked me to fondle her breast.
And though she did moan, I could not divest
the thought of my love, or eject from my chest
the thought of my sweet summer home.
Such full admiration left no consecration
to doubt, yet still I would flout, not far go without
the fever my love still instated in me.
The maeden, however, would suffer no power
to share her young soul without fee,
upon the good hour, rejecting all flowers
presented by me so she'd leave.
Instead of such grace, she lowered her face,
and desperately tugged at my sleeve.
She wanted, nay, needed the bloom of my seed,
but also desired the ringing of bells,
to always be ringing with happy white glee!
And though I suspect, that though I confess,
a pregnant young maeden I might have concieved,
I'd always respect what she couldn't believe,
that once married once, I couldn't just leave.
No nights would I stand in this foggy old hill,
no shiver nor freeze could bend my strong will.
The twilight of moon continued until
the dew of her eyes burst forth so tearfully.
The dark of her hair then contested, "unfair!"
She sank to her knees, and pleaded with pleas.
Existence, to her, I finally inferred, was subject
only to me. Yet though this I could see,
So chilled was the breeze, and lonely the wood,
that only I thought of the warmth of the sun.
And only I thought of where else I could run.
For lovely the maeden might certainly be,
but only my lover may claim over me,
(and only my lover may swallow my seed).
* * *
I kind of wrote this one as a joke, a long time ago. I thought it would be nice as an example of some of my work.