Swan Song

Swan Song

She untangles 

clumped dust from her unbrushed hair, 

hands smoothing into silk 

pleasure for her touch.  

Sour-pussed, 

nonplussed, 

internally eternal, 

she enjoys the panoply, 

the panorama of poetically entangled memory 

along the lanes of wonder.  

Without the barricade of 

fixed identity, 

she plays replete, 

balcony to world wide stage.  

Old, 

crone, 

mage, 

sovereign priestess of unnamed domain, 

she wishes 

and coin of primeval realm 

freely obeys.  

Watch her, gaze 

in consecrated crystal, 

blooms of dance 

hedonistic grace.  

She is yours for a song.

April 11, 2010