Thursday, November 29, 2007


"Fantasy" - digital image by S. Auberle
On a stormy night in March
you first came to my door
offering a split of pink champagne.
Your hope, you told me thirty years later,
was that I might distract you
from a life too early filled with duty.
To you I was moonlight,
wings, a tall aphrodisiac
with hair near to my waist.
I didn't know who you were,
didn't even know me,
but we drank from crystal glasses
and wrapped ourselves
in the silk of my hair
which took years
for Reality to untangle.
I think I am still
a figment of your imagination.
- mimi


Blogger 'soulless' said...

I like the touch of madness in this, and of passion in the lines "I was moonlight / wings, a tall aphrodisiac / with hair near to my waist". (A tempting dream to hold on to.)

The whole piece makes me think of the 'muse' in poetry.

9:38 AM  
Anonymous mimi said...

thanks, 'soulless'

my muse is often the bathtub--poems seem to hide among the bubbles...
how about yours?

i'm always interested in how and when poems arrive. of course you can't make it happen, that's for sure. they seem to have a mind of their own!

9:12 AM  

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