Emblazoned

Your sudden approach of letters, the black text,

cut like black diamonds, mounted so tightly

to the words of adoring affection, your crown.

Searingly bright, your standard, "Are you afraid to burn?"

Not believing this bag of skin and bones would light,

I was sleepwalking toward you with arms open wide.

Your lines marched before your stead emboldeningly.

You claimed to wear my colors on your sleeve, flameur.

Again and again, you said, I love you, forever.

Ah you armigerous, you use your strongest words so lightly.

You anointed me with promise and set me afire,

days and nights of pleasure, bright blossoms of desire.

A very tender box, I could glow on like this forever,

your text inside me, your photo on the bed beside me.

You said, I am your man, but whose man are you really?

Not mine, although I’d been waiting for some time,

le droit d'aînesse,  I’d stopped believing you’d arrive.

But at last you came,  parading before me, remarkably alive,

heralding en soleil, bridled and adroitly equipped with light. 

Your voice I will not forget, as it was like the October wind,

mistral warmly smooth, sounding the words

 girls and women long to hear;  

those dear dear words that make us feel, 

that made us reel and real and make us burn.

You who have rekindled my yesterdays by stoking the carbonous ashes

with your fingertips, anytime, anywhere, anyway,

 bowing out at the moment of my greatest inclination.

 Although honorable, your dismount was rough.

It was not your words but the tone, the manner, the timing, 

the nervous laughter in your voice, all so alarming. 

"I don’t want you to get hurt," you said.

A warning of intent that I clearly heard as an eclipse of the sun.

Next time, Tinman, it is your turn to burn.

If my flaming hair, my burning eyes don't entorch you now,

just wait ‘til we meet afield, and so you'll know,

my crest is yellow and black, the lioness looking back.

Victoria Vaughn-Perling, Copyright © 2005, regaurdant, October 3rd

This poem is the first of a series of poems that explore and resolve some very ancient  personal issues.

This poem, in particular, does not reflect any real intent 

but was only the first explosion of creative vigor after a very long silence. 

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Timestamp of last edit: September 14, 2006

The Shield is: Or, a lion rampant reguardant sable.
The Crest is: An arm holding the fleur de lis.
The Mottoes are: "Non Revertar Inultus", and "Honeste Audax", 'Honourably Bold'.