©Last Kiss
Mimi Wolske
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.
Majestically entered
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.
Unrecognized, Marvell's
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.
