Intimate Stranger

 

Who is this stranger that slips in through the night
cloaked with hidden memories
living emotion long crystallized?
And who takes away the chance
to break free from their spell
to drink from a brand new crystal clear well?

Who is this that sings with the rain
while my spirit cries?
Whose laughter rings on the wind
while my heart slowly dies?

On a soft bed of roses
I lay my will down
whenever the stranger comes hanging around
Always so numb to the sting of the thorn
The sharp spur of the moment
where passion is born

I sense no bad blood, no torment
no real malice there
Just bittersweet as time
strutting on without a care
for all of the things
that make our hearts and souls bleed
Never taking notice, never taking heed
to the details of this world
that knock us down to our knees

You can never really tell
what this stranger will bring
But you’ll  sense the phantom pilgrim
often hiding in the wings

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About Unsungpoet

Life-long poet, numerologist, author of other previously unpublished works :)
This entry was posted in Photos, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

5 Responses to Intimate Stranger

  1. Ben Naga says:

    Ah, those hidden wings … 🙂 (Both meaning are intentional.)

    (and “the sting of the the thorn” A stuttering, a typo, or a subtlety I’m missing?)

    • Unsungpoet says:

      Ah yes those hidden wings! The double the was a typo–thanks for pointing it out so I could fix it ’cause I’m kind of a perfectionist when it comes to my poems–I might change something a hundred times, but every little punctuation has to be just right…In this case, probably a subconscious stuttering indeed…

  2. I am certain his wings are forever hovering watching, and he is far from a stranger.. Beautifully done.. Loved the photo too x

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