Such Beauty in the Dangerous Beautiful

Look up at the moon and soon you will be enthralled by her beauty,
But then imagine dying as you’re lying on her bed of cold rock . . .
Gaze upon the awesome magnificence of the lion at a safe distance,
But then consider being mauled in your insistence to draw near . . .
Mountains are majestic but also so often dangerously undomestic;
Ah! What is beautiful can be so bountiful and so very inspirational,
But dangerous to the venturous, killing those willing to draw near
To what they hold dear in that same beauty that demands no duty
To die for what they can eye safely from afar, like a star in the sky;
Some beauty is mostly ghostly and simply cannot be held closely
But only admired in an almost lonely manner like what is holy . . .
Be wise in what your eyes see and the sudden rise in your heart
To claim some prize that was never meant to be possessed by you;
Admiration and appreciation does not demand your possession;
Be discerning and ever learning to calm the burning in your heart

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Note: Originally penned on December 1, 2016, now being republished due to some renewed interest as well as for the enjoyment of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!

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Living Life on the Edge of a Knife

Yours is a history of mystery,
Living life on the edge of a knife;
Your strength like the mountain,
Your love is a flowing fountain,
And you stand above the rest
At your best but you are a beast
And the least tame in this game,
And you shame your courtiers
Like a queen only to be seen
And admired by hired lovers,
Who hover round all day long
As if you are where they belong,
And they sing you songs of joy
While you toy with their feelings,
Peeling off every layer of worth
With which they came at birth
Upon this earth at home ‘n hearth;
You leave them starving in dearth!
Ah! But who can possibly resist
When you persist to insist to come,
And to enter into your chamber
As an insignificant playmaker?
Your allurance defies endurance
So there’s but deference to be paid,
Reverence to be laid at your feet
By bleating sheep as you sleep . . .
Ah! But are you satisfied, gratified?
Inside you’re like the rage of ocean,
Churning at the turning of each page,
And no sage can begin to save you
From the cave of your own soul . . .
Yours is a history of mystery,
And no one will ever understand
The demand of your tumultuous life
That you live on the edge of a knife!