At the moment my muse is sulking in one corner and I am in the other. So I am doing some dreaded reposting. This is a very special poem my muse wrote for me.
On the table's
edge she played solitaire,
with plastic pills, a paper cup
and safety pins all tucked
snugly in her over night bag.
From a sleepy grin, her eyes
trucked the contour of his flesh
slumbering at her feet.
A black Jack cradled ten hearts;
all blushing rouge. The vodka glass
pressed against her lips, she did think
if only people were this pure or clear,
not murky jars of whiskey he dives into.
"I have my prescriptions," she sighed
everyone needs an anecdote to love.
She lit up an angel
in the breaking silence,
of the traffic head lights.
She spoke poetry only in rare
moments of reflection.
"We are not perfect"
his sleep murmured. "No,
but we make complete each other"
she sung, swathing him
in her naked breast, aglow
in a drive-by love scene.
Too early for the rainbow, too early for the dove These are the final days, this is the darkness, this is the flood
[This message has been edited by brian madden (09-24-2002 07:11 PM).]