Swan Song

 
 
 
She untangles
clumped dust from her unbrushed hair,
hands smoothing into silk
pleasure for her touch. 
Bare of self-consciousness,
nonplussed,
internally eternal,
she enjoys the panoply,
the panorama of poetically entangled memory
along 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 long limbed
hedonistic grace. 
She is yours for a song.
.
.
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