The Blonde

We're two young eccentrics, out here by ourselves
With only a cat, and a thousand bookshelves.
We stare at these volumes, these collections of lore
As we lounge in the darkness, growing quite bored.
Barely we realize all these things that we ask;
Whom be that stranger, with the face like a mask?
Exactly how deep is our bottomless pond?
And when, if ever, shall we hear from the blonde?
Who answers no summons, heeds no words at all?
Who's lived for the moment, at least since The Fall?
We fear for her safety, we fear now her health
We fear she be lonely, then fear that she ails
'til at last we remember, not to fear for her self,
For she's nothing but words, in a book on a shelf.

Find more by Mike Rasmussen in the Author Index.

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