No Fairytale (I.P.)

She flitted through my room last night.
Her diaphanous attire glistened green
as serpents in the tide, and with a wave
of her hand, she gave me wings to fly,
as heaven bound we sped; no dream
was ere as real as this.

A mix, she was...somewhere between
an angel and a nymph; even in His garden
she displayed not a hint of modesty.
Her wings shone as diamonds, set
in platinum – melting into one
translucent light.

We came to rest beside the Wormwood
in the glade where she resides...where
Star Anise thrives with crimson clusters,
such that charmed Hippocrates, where
earth and honey feed gnarled roots
of ancient aniseed. And thus she spoke.

“Man’s life’s too short...a solitary
smut, on the face of eternity,
so live for now; prithee, imbibe
whatever is your poison. Get drunk
with me on music, love, or poetry!

Perchance to watch the sunrise
from a hilltop, or bunjee-jumping
from a dam. The choice, my friend,
is yours; whether by some verdant
bank, or in a sordid, downtown dive.

Ask only of these – the lion, the deer,
the tree, the stone, the wave; all
that rocks, that rolls, that breaks,
bays or sings...enquire of each
and they will tell you, what counts
is this, here, now.

Let folk spin their tales of madness.
Believe them, if you’re fool enough,
or choose to tell them insanity is sweet
if one can quench a fiery thirst with a first,
ambrosial sip to make life bearable again.
Then, who is madder – you or they?”

And in a trice, she’d gone, as fast
as she’d appeared, and I found myself
transported to here, back to my room.
Beside my chair, a glass, newly poured,
of shimmering absinthe frappé...like
her eyes, the bluest of things green.