Parting With The Poet….

She desired the poet

More than anyone she had wanted

In her life.

Her heart raced when he read aloud

To the group she had joined

Just months before…. for intellectual stimulation.

His deep voice boomed with lyrical rhyme

Covering all in a word mantel of wisdom.

He was uncharmed by bright skies and butterflies.

And she even quivered a bit as he read

While his long, silver- gray locks reflected the morning sun.

Was it love, lust or another form of poetic license? she mused.

In time she had her way with His Rhymeness.

Her adulation and repetition of his language of love, of blossoming bosoms and skin-tight jeans

Wove a seamless web around yet another victim of his own verse.

They togethered a year, two at most

And she discovered that the prize, her poet,

Was, within, a lesser gold than the promise of his lyrics.

So it became necessary that she,

The non-poet, the weaver of webs, the seeker of lasting love

Craft the final lines in their in their own verse, and so she did:

“Alas, my bard, I fear we must part

For your words of lust

Come not from your heart

But from paperback books

I found at Walmart!”

(Credit to Margie Keane for the closing lines.)

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