A poet is in love with his muse but she has other passions.
He smooths her picture,
lush full lips, he caresses with fingers.
He calls, begs; she must feel his presence.
Her sweet, warm breath lingers.
A sinister rival lurks, biding its time.
If he could just get her to taste.
His web encircles gently,
loving death; tragic waste.
Subways, an ocean of faces blur,
images of her shadow, obsessing,
she is his drug, he has no control.
He has lost himself in possessing.
A rush, her lavender floods his senses.
Other women are cheap imitations.
Writing without her is inconceivable.
How can he live? An impossible situation.
In their short lifetime, two years,
she gave his existence meaning.
Now wherever he looks, she appears
As long as he feels her, she lives.
A fleeting profile, a smile in a cafe,
brown soulful eyes with golden hues.
Her hair, a jumbled garden of auburn,
a fertile field of fresh morning dew.
Only he can see her angel wings.
She never meant to cause pain,
so young, impulsive, and childlike.
Why must she cause his heart such strain?
As long as the serpent stays away
with needles and candy.
He believes he can save her.
Cradled in his arms, not in a box,
her soul already sold.
By Kathie Stehr