Mornings and evening

She came knocking on my bedroom door
with linctus for my gritty throat;
evening drew into a sweeter night
and the morning was the beginning of the next day.
The next day dawned with memories of a sweet dream
that had a truth greater than the lies of day.

She came knocking on my bedroom door
with toast and marmalade and Spanish orange juice
that lasted us most of the day for sustenance.
We walked hand-in-hand through the city streets and squares
pondering on the whole of Aleister Crowley's Law
and defying his curse
(though I, for one, knew it had already come true.)
And the evening was the end of the second day.

Partings were sweet sorrow,
I to the north, she to dance with her true lover in London town,
we perhaps never more to meet.
And the evening was the beginning of all the days to come.
05/05/08, 11:30pm