Her

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She was a pale slip of a
girl who smiled like boulders
but smelled of sunshine, promise,
and all the things we forgot,
a platinum goddess with
a silver tongue and the gold
standard laying at her feet;
entitlement was her soul.

It's not about what could have
been or the way dreams can die,
forgotten and alone like
strays out in the street, hounds of
our own War of the Roses,
the parent of the crown of
thorns that we wear like old kings,
fathers of the forbidden
kingdom of love that has died.

We, debauchery, were the
Bacchae, celebrants of all
things base and low. And in the
end she still invited me,
expected to smile and make
merry like Aphrodite
at the wedding of Psyche
and my beloved Cupid.

Created: Dec 09, 2010

Tags: written poetry

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