Wednesday, June 04, 2014

Random Acts of Poetry


She stands alone,
her bare
feet reflected
in a dark pool
of polished stone.

Her hair,
untied for the night
from its impossible weave,
promises a shower
of pale spirals

from her Circe head,
while a drapery
of gauze
defines her
narcotic form

till I startle awake.
The air is hot.
Men would melt
in her killing embrace.
Acid vapors cloud her eyes.

And even as her star
rises in east,
bedecking the sky
with a crystal tear,
she burns and whispers a lie.

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