Alas, 'tis the season for my heart to love.
by Mary Lyle
A crisp Monday morning; bustling bodies align the streets, shoving off to their jobs.
The salty pavement ahead reflects only visions of those deep, radiant morsels; portals to your soul, summonsing me until all else becomes a faint muffle.
The CD spins a kaleidescope of yesterday's images while rendering me incoherent.
With an abyss of butterflies, my heart succumbs to elation ignited exclusively by the stroke of your hands; Delicate intricacies encumbering the power of a divinity.
Passing vehicles outside my window coerce me back to a reality as fine as an ocean mist and away from trembling hands.
My thoughts are mesmerized by the spell in which you've cast upon my being, and the very depths of my existence.
Unequivocally, you are the spirit cast from Heaven, sent to envelope my essence.