Queen Anne & D’Artagnan

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What is this thing that threatens ownership of my entire heart – a heart which I have guarded successfully for aeons, or so it seems. 

It defies all description and detail and will not be labelled or named. The writer is its slave; without it would she wish to write another line.


It brushes my lips with a greeting kiss and leaves my cells yearning for more . . . but stronger, longer yet not with blame, guilt or shame.


It renders the owner speechless when speech is needed to progress the situation, whether for better or worse. It escapes a simple fool like me.


All songs and stories are written to explain it, I see this now. It is what they say and yet so much more for it is forbidden and yet sacred.


When the hand is placed in mine there is nothing else except stars whirling about within and without. My body is weak, but it is strong. It holds me up.


Writings and musings are solely occupied by it. The poet is at its mercy. The poet must produce a masterpiece to impress it.


It comes to me in the night and soothes my lonesome heart. I am gathered into it. It whispers words of comfort into my dreams.


I feel it when the sun kisses the horizon, the wind weaves through the trees of my homeland and the birds sing each other the evening song.


It transcends sexual expression; has no need of it. But make no mistake; the electrical current which sparks between us doesn’t extinguish.


It’s passion is quietly contained; there are boundaries and reservations and it does beg to be released from these, to find freedom.


I think of it as romance personified. My palpable shadow during the day which sleeps beside me at night time. My master, my friend.


It’s in the dreams I have of a boy I knew from lifetimes ago. He comes to me and strokes me when I weep in the night. I yearn for him again.


It does not see aging. Or it sees it but does not register it. It thrives on glances across the room and sweet whisperings meant only for me.


It stands the test of time and survives distance, adversity and months at a time with little or no contact. But it can not be forgotten.


It demands to be felt and validated and refuses to whither and die a natural death which is both celebrated and mourned.


And when you hear it has had a brush with death the body becomes starved of sustenance, the soul of light and the heart of life.


It is not without it’s shortcomings. Once you’ve experienced it life without it is unbearable . . . a perpetual state of longing.


And one becomes tormented into thinking of it night and day until sleep is gone and all other activities deemed to be unimportant.


Life is lived in a constant state of anticipation; if I turn my back to it I know in time I will surrender and submit to the torture yet again.


It shatters moral conscience; faith is questioned continually until the inevitable declaration that it should reign supreme once more.


And now we sympathise with the hard drug users. To know such ecstasy and not want it. How do mere mortals resist such a force?


For it survives across the decades; rejection does not diminish it nor is it jaded when met with the realisation that there is no future for it.


There is a scream within me that may break out an any given time. I can not escape it’s grasp even with my life in turmoil . . . I do not wish to.


It defies convention and upon its owner’s death when all is revealed and the secret is out, her loved one’s will think of her as a saint no longer.


It is a telepathy; I see into his mind and he into mine whenever we wish. The spoken word is made obsolete but tenderly we think of the other.


It winds itself through the pillars of my mind as a fantasy too beautiful to be true – is he true? I accept that it is what it is. It does not finish …


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