Witchy Love and the Priestess

Witchy love and the Priestess, on the Sunday morning stand. We go our very different ways. I stand alone in a world that she does not know. I remind myself not to close in on her. Still, I have to remind myself of what might have been. It was all some crazy dream or was it some possibility? And did she listen to the words and the music? And did she understand the things that I tried to say to her? And did she realise that the things that she said to me, spoke to my soul? Turning away in the aftermath, if there really is an aftermath, and if it is really a turning away, haunts my commitment, my honesty, my truth. And I was thinking of her appropriateness and I cared to think that she was going to be ok. I had heard the word the word before, and I was informed that it meant destruction. And tonight, all the world in my world wants me to care for her and hold her in my caring dream. Somewhere, away from a certain reality, I sense her, and feel that she senses me also. And is she dark as the nighttime? And is she apart from love? And am I a part of her truth? And where is truth as regards the magic? And what happened to that magic anyway? Did it disappear or did she ignore its possibillity? I guess that the end is the end, but my feeling can have no end. My feeling is real, and it is with her always.

Monday Morning

The angel cries, the mirror beckons, a reflection that is not of another's success. Dark haired Hispanic bella, and she is so inviting, and I greet her with a sympathetic smile. Yesterday faded into today. The morning sought to awaken me away from comfortable simplicity. And on Sean McDermott Street in the middle of the morning, I recognised a face as it recognised mine. She says I should visit, be familiar, and I smile, and I remember that she remembered, with some kind of impressiveness. Dark is her beauty and light is her heart, and loving is her countenance. Memories of ancient love, envelope and the sun comes to play, looking me straight in the eye. And in the dream there was a Spanish Galleon, and in the dream there was fire, and outside of the dream, all was illusion. And the dream and the reality found unity with themselves. And I heard a sad song on the radio, of love that had walked away by itself, where destiny had refused. And on O'Connell Street, she stood there wondering, about her memory and the words that she spoke to me with. And I tell myself to be easy and turn just slightly from her, to what I believe is my truth. And the authorities were on the raid on Moore Street this morning, and they were weak in their strength, and I was secretly pleased. I walked my way home in the early afternoon, with a smile and a memory of ancient times. Love was in the air and its colour was magic.