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 libramoon

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