100 DAYS OF POETRY: DAY 50 - For of the women I am called

For of the women I am called
By Stephen Martin

The sun doth cast the rays of men
Upon the spiraling earth,
And of those some may grab a pen
To work its light to birth
The many vacant fantasies
That die inside their heads,
The laureates of softer things
Before they’re laid to bed.

I implore these men to know
The gifts that sing them to delight,
Forever questing with my sword
To meet them in the night.
I greedily, uncannily beseech them
For the truth—
They tell me, “Do not come away
Before the night of youth.”
For in her darkness they do swim
Then lay upon her shore,
The light forever caving in
Their eyes forevermore,
And dreams do catch the moon’s lament
But they just chuckle on
Into the breast of cinnamon
Into the breast of dawn.

“I know her,” I say. “I know her,”
They say too—
“She is the one I give my life,”
They nod and bid adieu.
“I know the reason she weeps on
     And on into the bonny deep.
I’ve heard her lovelorn brokenness
     Her weeping star’s defeat.
She is the hallow, kissing mist
     That sits upon my cheek,
     She is the salty fountain’s love
     Of life’s duality.

For of the women I am called
Their voices mend my soul,
And in their being I am lost
While fully being whole.
They find my shaddows; unlike the men
Who sort me to the side.
They find me, and they let me know
I do not have to hide.”

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