An archer's heart bled into winter's fine tempered hands,
Its purest form almost that of an angel.
She calls to you with tethered voice,
Softly singing in archaic tones,
whispers through which to dream upon.
In lover's mourning heart,
She aches with desolate memories,
Each burning through fires on dewdrop lilies,
Ashes upon ashes,
Fall to heaven's feet and parish.
Like the last snow on Eden,
It came in the deepest part of March;
Awake with the sweetest caress,
That hands tenderness on the edge
of razor blade dances;
She breathed for you.
Virgin's loving hands,
Placed you so calmly,
On unsealed shadows,
Laid unraveled irises with crystalline voices,
Left frozen by winter's harsh words.
I blend my color with ivory undertow,
A mosaic in perfect harmony,
Twisted with irrelevance.
Beauties ballet for December's smile,
In snow that falls so softly,
Left to rest with Eden.
©Ashley Leslie 2013
