Ode To Tristan, Isolde and Adele ...

When I first ventured into the colourful world of composing poetry to speak of the past-tense. My poems were largely of those based on the topic of love. Or moreover of the romantic, and were exclusive for a specific girl that I had a deeply felt crush on as a child. Her name was Adele, she possessed a voice only ever lovingly heard in the minds eye of sweet hindsight, of who's soft vocal tone would intoxicate the striking sensuality of her time, and the fevered thoughts provoked more than that of casual courtship as for those of each who would enforce to befall, with an embrace of falling as ever deep into the resting arms of adoration and for ever deeper still, with her every suggestive word to ever leave those delicate lips behind and of who's smile that play to those lips have inspired to encourage my very own as her beauty seemed to almost echo through-out time to the classic new romantic movement. But in sadness and over time, We lost all contact and parted company as i was forced to postpone the puberty of my adolescent years (I have also seldom ever written a solitary poem or story prior to the day that she had fleetingly came back into my life). So the Stage was certainly set on facebook where she made her entrance and we began to speak again as my heart would skip more than a few beats to her warm hearted words. Because in my mind, the envisioned eroticism to her apparent namesake alone had inspired me, as i feel as with mine as did she. Finally, the candle that I had reserved in her name had suddenly reignited and with that, my inflamed passion of almost volatile distress had began to boil over and so, armed only with a warped outlook, I continued to intimidate her with the poems of noted fanaticism. I can vaguely recall my first poem that I had devoted to her. It was entitled "Tristan and isolde" and was set in a fictional Theatre with the plot involving each of us playing the parts of two lovers growing ever deeper for each other and living out our romantic affairs on the stage to the applause of an enthralled audience, and it received quite the welcoming response from her and so again inspired, I attempted in vein to pursue her further. But then, a tragedy took to the stage. She dictated her intentions to withdraw her company, to break my spirit and had drawn away from her destructive wake. I still write poems to this day, but without an audience with Adele, has left me feeling somewhat redundant to pick up my pen as my once fevered and featured fixation intended no less for in tending her, but as though taken in turn to return to her -is a love of the given and gifted, or stolen, not borrowed as taken away, The End ...