Lametta

A soloist who stood alone     

Was blessed with a companion,

He was brave and he was strong,

A cheeky voice made him more handsome;

He played the dance nobody knew,

He swept her off her feet,

Into her heart, new melodies sewed,

Ones of the pleasures of defeat;

With poetry he was renown,

Like acting, the words knew how to flow,

Most magical was the sound

Of his voice that wove through

The still-waiting air,

With a tune bright on his lips,

Pitches tighter than a stare,

Light dripping from his fingertips.

The frosty room, coated in glee,

Hanging by its paper-chains,

Was where he let her soul fly free,

Whilst, open-handed, he took her reins;

It’s snowflakes dancing in his glow,

All full of cheer when his eyes glint,

Once perfectly in life’s row,

Now thrown forward at just one hint;

He led the Lyre into his palms,

She twirled about his bidding,

Amongst them both were the psalms

Of joy, making a home to live in.

Whilst their music did not have a link,

There was still time to grow

From fallen things, now from the brink,

Companionship began to show;

Musing, laughing, they played the game,

A truth they began to see,

Despite their icy, knowing shame,

Their romance was soft harmony.

 

A soloist who stood alone     

Was blessed with a companion,

He was brave and he was strong,

A cheeky voice made him more handsome.

He bore her Christ through murky waters,

Even when she would step away;

Her devious lies he also bore, her

Melodies he let into his fray,

In poetry stood with her in hand,

Beautiful in her own right,

The jagged voice of the gentle lamb,

To surround that tongue of night.

As the decorations heaved to break,

They had much more to hold,

Like the curls splintered about her neck,

The colour of lametta gold.

The End

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