Come, my babe.

Following is a poem for the prompt ‘The Golden Hour’ by The Daily Post

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/10/27/daily-prompt-dawn/

The darkness turns, much like I do,

Rolling over in her bed—blue and white,

Much like mine.

 

The covers slip from my tiny fingers,

The warmth sprints away like the night did,

Cold, dewy and resilient, settles on my feet,

Plays in my hair and freezes my dreams.

 

Dreams of fairies in prairies,

And dragons and dungeons,

Caves, moats, castles, frozen in ice that

Seeps through my skin and eyes.

 

Her hand slips through my tresses,

Floats down my arms,

She leaves a scorching burn where she goes,

I know this, her tactile charm.

 

I know it well, and resist,

Fighting still, for the fairies to fly,

For the dragons to breathe fire

Castles to cry.

 

I toss and turn and protest,

She coos, “Come my babe.”

Slips her hand under me, and

Puts me to her chest.

 

A Sleepy head finds her shoulder,

Sleepy eyes still droop,

Tired sighs, heavy mind,

Fingers that clutch her dress of blue.

 

The little sleep gets littler still,

When I feel a rocking,

“Watch, my babe,” she says,

“As the sun comes knocking.”

 

I turn and open my eyes,

I can feel her rocking me still,

I lay my head on her shoulder,

Clutch her fingers and look to the hill.

 

He starts out slow, steady though he becomes,

He turns the sky from black to blue,

To grey, to orange,

Do I see the shade of plums?

 

One by one, as he wakes up,

He lulls the stars to sleep,

I watch as he sings, and hums

And plays with the birds in keeps.

 

Much like she does,

He draws the curtain as he goes,

One of crimson and scarlet and blue,

Light as the river when he flows.

 

The air chills a little,

And I lean into her chest,

Her arms come around me, pull me to her,

The ones that laid me to rest.

 

The babes of cold play on my skin,

The air nips at my feet,

But she keeps me warm,

With her tender, constant heat.

 

So, I watch with curious eyes,

As the Angel of Light creeps,

Crawling, devouring, consuming,

The grass and flowers in heaps.

 

He flows over the mountains,

Crosses the rivers and seas,

Adds a sparkle, a light,

A destiny, a pirouette to their feet.

 

He stretches over the horizon,

Red, orange, crimson, glorious,

He stands tall as a king,

Returned from battle victorious.

 

Should I be scared of him?

I think I might be,

Until he rolls and moves and flows,

And stops at my feet.

I see him kissing them,

With all his incandescent beauty,

His warmth, his tender touch,

Much like she does.

 

“He’s no demon, babe.”

She says, “He’s tender, sweet and kind.”

“He will be your one true friend,

With no interest and none dime.”

 

“When the night is dark, and terrors roam,

And plague you with evil dreams,

He will come and rescue you,

Wake you from evil sleep.”

 

“He will fill colors and light,

He will ask for none in return,

Welcome him in your life,

Watch your light burn.”

 

I nod, she does too,

I rock, she does too,

He stays where he was,

A friend loyal and true.

 

The rocking might have lulled me again,

I think I felt my senses dull,

I feel the quilt beneath me again,

Over my dreams, once again, I mull.

 

But no hand slips through my tresses,

And floats down my arms,

No burn marks on my skin,

Gone is her tactile charm.

 

The covers stay over me,

And I stay where I am,

Drowsing, mulling, sleeping,

Tossing, turning, seeping.

 

At last, I throw them off,

Move to my destination,

To wake another,

From the minds repose and vacation.

My hand slips through his tresses,

Floats down is arms,

Removes the covers,

Employing my tactile charm.

 

And the darkness turns, much like he does,

Rolling over in her bed—blue and white,

Much like his.

 

“Come, my babe,” I say,

Willing his dull senses to life,

“Come and watch with me,

As the sun comes knocking.”

 

 

 

 

 

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About chateauwordsville

I am a daydreamer, book/movie/music lover, media student who likes to talk in third person and dream about bizarre scenarios involving dragons, witches and more books.
This entry was posted in Books, Creative, Literature, Original, Poems, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Come, my babe.

  1. Pingback: Waiting for the golden hour | Processing the life

  2. Pingback: Golden Hour, part II | Rob's Surf Report

  3. Pingback: The golden hour… | Life as a country bumpkin...not a city girl

  4. Pingback: Daily Prompt: The Golden Hour | Chronicles of an Anglo Swiss

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