Mimi Wolske-Mona Arizona™
All Rights Reserved
Don't get all hot and bothered,
this is a poem about somebody else,
The devil's in the details,
so you don't need to look too closely,
you don't need to try and read
between the lines...there's nothing there.
Lust's buried under fingernails—
disillusioned by other lovers,
she wasn't ready to love
after being vomited back
into a world deserted by
men—men who were not trustworthy.
May not be a queen, but she
was numb under her dangling crown.
She took back her kingdom;
drawbridge raised for defenses and
ornamental moat was refilled,
fortifying her aching heart.
Futile, repeated attacks
found the castle walls protected.
Boring, lonely, drudging years,
middle-age, grey-grizzled hair,
emptiness reflected from eyes saw
rejected knights scale other walls.
a jester from another land,
one who drew years of stored laughs,
who harkened to her stories.
A canvas painted with love
would fight fading dragons.
own Winged Chariot advanced.
Life's youthful hue moat-like dried.
Love held her in thrall at last;
with ritual madness and
ecstasy, one last breath.
Hope never departed.
Drawbridge lowered over dry moat.
Gasping at reality,
eyelids fell one last time.
Vaporous jester of
Death held evanescent queen.