Poor Poet's Scroll

"No sword
Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, [6]
But one poor poet's scroll, and with 'his' word
She shook the world." - Tennyson, 'The Poet'

I may not shake the world, but I do believe in the power of words.

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14. Setting of the golden sun

     Sea, so brilliant, so lucid,

blending into the light skies,

A painter’s brush moulding and blending.

Light breeze maternally lifting the lightest grain of sands.

Cauliflower plume of black smoke

silhouetting against the oceanic skies.

Shrieks, witches’ cackles and chants,

chink of bottles, sizzle of charcoaled meat.

Bikinis, beach shorts of garish colours

mock nature, artificially plucking flowers

from the rainforest.

Fake vividness liquidates in bottles,

sliding down hungry throats,

inflaming the brain.

Woman, makeup smeared, no alabaster statue

staggers, slips to the pillared figure.

“No one likes you Morgan,

not me, cold frigid witch.”

Liquor’s key unlocked the chest of secrets.

Blank canvas, walks away,

“Arthur, your fiancée’s at it again.”

Agape versus Eros.

Reluctance to leave the joyful celebrations.

Right hand man, friend these past ten years,

looks, hit by a dense saucepan,

but charm and allure of a past noble.

Lance.

A knight of old, linking arms and guiding

alcohol’s victim further down the beach.

Sly slant from under thick lashes,

“No ideas Jenny,” fierce reprimand

laced with a quiver, bobbing of Adam’s apple.

Reach forward to snatch the bottle

inhale the feminine rush of flowers.

Eyes meters away, no boundaries.

Typhoon of conflict, of desire.

Long, tanned arms wrap and trap

around the neck, pulling closer,

magnetic allure, unspoken,

adrenalized by danger.

Crush of lips,

            flame lit.

 

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