slam poetry

high walls and huge
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
one sweetly solemn thought
afraid no more, i say
up and down he goes
in your arms was still delight
to the passionate lover
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
my mother taught me that every night
the little white prayers
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
for truth, for love
in his guarded tent
still thirteen years