Charlz dela Cruz

To the red-haired woman who lives in the forest of the wild. The trees touch you with their dreams...

She wears not silver Nor shimmering jewels, Nor any fine ornaments, But a flower on her hair, Yet she is more than enough Even without it.  The sun is in her eyes; The moon is breathing on her skin;  When she speaks, the lion sighs.
What beauty does this woman hold?
I once made a garland of roses For her head, and they turned gold.  What pure radiance is she made, what art? O, Queen of my heart.

They warned him that she was mad.  He did not believe them... until she took his heart and started to write poems with his blood. “Do not worry,” she said, “for every poem is stained with a kiss.” She wrote a hundred more. It was a fantasy that was never meant for any human.  But he did not want to let go... until she evoked ghosts and ancient spirits  to hold him tight.  “Do not move,” she whispered.  “I also want to write poems inside your body. If you move, it might hurt more.” She stabbed her golden quill into his skin and wrote until midnight, until there was  no more space in him for another poem.  Tired yet smiling, she asked, “Do you like it?” “Whatever makes you happy,” he groaned,  not knowing if he was dead or alive.  “But, please tell me, do you also love me?” he asked.  She looked at him, her glassy eyes pure and innocent, “I only write because of you, my love. You make me a poet.” Then she kissed him, and at once he knew that their love was true.  She showed him his heart  sweetly beating in her h…

The world was a playground for fools like him Until she came, lily-like in the wind. He had to stop, he had to pause and look: She was a force of nature, A beauty of a fairytale in a book.  And all that he thought was best in the world Began to crumble at her feet.  He stared at her, quietly melting, As she walked past him
Unaware she was glowing.