slumber

     By Christopher Bowman

The witching hour past,
Gentle soul in slumber lies,
Soft cascading tangles crown soft perfection,
In deep repose breathes night's cool demeanor,
Breasts rise and fall,
Clothed in shadow's veil,
Velvet reminders of such beauty possessed,
Yet unadorned seem all the more,
In vulnerability exposed.
Small hands,
Lie calm at last,
No restless task involved,
Seem fragile, open,
Accepting moonlight's loving cares,
Resting against curves revealed,
Softly defined by brushstrokes of shadow and moonlight,
As if beneath the artist's hand,
Form refined by no small intention,
Achieving symmetry,
A lover's landmark so recognized,
That even in silver moonlight raining down,
The fire portent is displayed,
Yet in peaceful repose,
Moonlight-kissed,
Perfection so softly sings.
Her lover's mind, in flights of dream,
Does so imagine,
That sleep is forever denied in longing to possess,
Not the form so lovingly displayed,
But the beauty that lies within...