Leige Lord

In songs of praise
I sing your life
Caught wild–
In a dream of your own imagining.
Infant,
An ideal of your own devising.
Inconstant one,
With iron eyes
And iron heart,
Would I claw at your soul
And hold you to me
In a firey passion
To consume you and I, always.

But time crushes me
And soon will stain my flesh
As I weep
For you.

And into my heart you cut and thrust
And without the trust, I am dead.

But space divides us
Not the space of miles
Nor of barely inches.
Yet I stand all space away
Even when, with your hand,
You could but reach out
And touch–
Just one sweet touch.

But lacking in the grace of birth
You are yet aloof.
Above and beyond me
Another space divides us yet.

And war, and anger
And dreams of flames
Are all your eyes desire!
Is all they see.

Where I would hold
Your hand
So soaked with blood,
You thirst for that justice
To which I am blind.

And blind justice afflicts me!
The agonies of its fevers
Torture me!
Even as you would
Torment those who would oppose you!

There are no cavaliers now
No enemy to wrestle
And yet you still strike
Each vain attack
And vanity it is!
–yours
–and mine.

So foolish
So fey,
Oh Cromwell!
If that passion, that fire
Only were for me
Had you never trod this path
Had you never dreamed this dream of binding
That will destroy you.

My Cromwell
That peace you will
Shall be within.
If you but come to me.