The Walker.

She sat there by the moss covered stone,
looking upon the path where the Sun seldom shone,

Awaiting the walker who'd risk his all,
beyond all reason, with supreme gall.

to entice her with fervor and in might,

but subtle enough to feed her delight.

The one who'd raise his chalice, by the stem,

and bow to her rules, yet break them.

Alas! A walker passing by,

jolly, unwary, mind into the sky.

Halting for a drink, a clear stream nearby.

Catch, he did, a reflection in the stream,

"Is she an Angel? Am I dead ? Is this a dream ?"

Stood himself up, he questioned the lass,

"Who rests there, upon the soft grass?"

Watching the walker come forth and speak,

In all his merry and earnest beseech,

She arose from her moss covered throne,

pointing towards the admirer unknown,

"I like you. It is you, whom I shall own!"

Hearing this the walker, reduced to one knee,

"I love you, milady, I follow your decree."

The Angel now flustered raised her hand,

slapped the walker down, into damp sand.

"Know you not of" she spoke, "honor, self respect?"

"O' foolish walker, Love's puppet!"

"Go on now, your visage no longer enchants."

"Never come back, your fire is scant!"

To which the airy walker arose,back on his path, 

to where the time never froze, tipped his hat,

back towards the stream, for the drink there at.

And the Angel went back to her mossy throne,

Looking upon the path, where the Sun seldom shone.

Awaiting the walker, who'd risk his all,

Beyond all reason, with supreme gall.

-Askios

(Jan-12-2012, 2 a.m.)