The Maid
Swirling, twirling, shifting,
Mist of blue, green, and red,
Conceals the young lithe form,
Long slender arms of palest,
Ivory, twine together above a,
Lustrous crown of silver mane.
Entwining in each other as,
Though they were writhing snakes,
Twining themselves above her,
Sliver mane swinging wildly,
To the music unheard by all,
Save her. The mysterious,
Mist clothing the lithe,
Pale form, cloaking,
Her in rich, blue, greens,
And red, which seemed to,
Conform to her body as,
Though it were a second skin,
Swaying gently to music,
That exists solely, in her,
Heart, her movements luring,
And exotic, draw forth the Lion,
Of legends, long forgotten,
To her side he doth pad,
The Lion of old halted, his,
Trek in front of the beauty,
Clothed in mist, gazing at her,
He roared in, agony for the,
Beauty he could never,
Possess. How majestic,
He did appear as he stood,
In her shadow, golden mane,
Broad chest and shoulders,
Liquid brown eyes.
Slowly, she reaches, for him,
The mist of colors, dance,
Around the maid, completely,
Enveloping, her. He roars,
His anger for he no longer,
Sees the beauty, which has,
So captured his heart,
That, she is now his only,
Thought, and desire.
Swiftly a gale clears the,
Mist away and there standing,
Silently, waiting, and,
Watching, was a lioness with,
Mane of silver, the perfect,
Compliment to his golden mane.