Sitting in Michael's Lap
No Greater Love
A woman's heart believes in fairy tales –
It matters not how cynical she grows –
For part of her is still the dreamy maid
Who doesn't "hope" that love exists: she knows.
That trusting child who practices her smile,
Imagining how perfect it will be
When first she looks into her Prince's eyes,
And finds those eyes are all that she can see
When time suspends, and then the music plays,
A melody that's heard by only two;
And eyes that cannot bear to look away,
As though they never held another view.
Her fingers' curves were made to fit his hand,
And when he brushes them with gentle lips,
The tingle of his touch becomes a flame
That starts along her trembling fingertips
And travels up her arm into her breast
Wherein it burns with such delicious heat
That she cannot but shine beneath his gaze,
The two are one – the circle made complete.
Adrift upon the air, the mystery
Which hangs upon the treasure of a kiss –
When first she tastes the sweetness of his lips –
No moment could be more divine than this ...
She drowns in him, a willing suicide,
Surrendering herself to his caress
He sweeps her in his arms, and they away,
To live their lives of perfect happiness.
But then the coarse reality intrudes,
Revealing imperfections to the eye,
And floods the dream with ugly truths, to prove
That "happy ever after" is a lie.
For shining eyes will have their shadow, too,
And perfect lips are sometimes known to frown;
The selfsame hands that formed the warm embrace
Can also serve to beat your spirit down;
And things are said in anger, and in pain,
And truth can be a rare commodity –
Until it seems that what was once a dream
Has turned into a daily agony.
In tears, the loving girl is locked away,
And heartless stone erected in her place –
For none can harm the thing they cannot see
Behind the cynic's mask that hides her face.
So she endures, untouched by anything,
Existing, though she dare not try to live;
While in her heart, the lonely maid despairs:
Still wanting love, with so much left to give ...
Until the day when one, with loving hands,
Unlocks the cage that holds that gentle dove –
When wounded heart can find the faith to trust,
In all the world, there is no greater love.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest