The Voice

I turn around,
my usual prance
where beers abound:
perhaps by chance,
out of nowhere,
The Voice is there.

Her beaming smile
contains no guile,
Those jasper eyes
now show surprise,
the gaze, so intense,
is right on me, without pretence:
she has never once
beheld me askance.

The space between us closes:
her smell, like damask roses,
stops my beat
and chokes my breath,
just before she makes the choice
to release her golden Voice.

The space of an "Hellow" to rapture me
in a place where i am floating free:
as festive bells chime their kind warnings
on an Easter's spring glorious morning,
I'm brushed by the sound of her gentle Rs,
rolled in bundles, glittering as stars
dripping like welcomed mountain dew
condensed out of the sky's deep blue
at the early break of dawn
on my dry, forsaken lawn.

The sweet, sweet tones of her phonemes
bind me tight to a constant dream:
that I may drink for long to come,
like a small kid suckling a thumb,
from all the sweet The Voice creates
until, if ever, my thirst satiates.

The night has come: I'm wide awake.
As we part ways and company,
The Voice is guilty of larceny.
For I walk empty and parched again,
whatever was it's hard to explain,
and there's one thing that makes me ache:
I do realise
The Voice committed heinous crime!