Across fields of golden grain I see her
walking, marching, down this aisle of fate.
Gracefully, she moves as a timeless ghost
or some ethereal beauty yet unseen.
Her scarlet dress dances under harvest moon
as I sing to her whispers on the endless winds.
Those amber strands annoint her gentle face,
deservingly crowning her august head.
My arms yearn to touch her tender hands
and my legs itch to drag me to her feet.
My eyes dream to simply watch her smile
and to gaze forever in those cerulean eyes.
Yet, I remain motionless and silent.
My limbs imprisoned by some insiduous fate;
my voice silenced by some souless warden.
The crows overhead mock my imposition.