A buttonnerie worn in his night blue suit,
Surveying eyes, his gaze still fixed, unmoving- forward looking.
Auburn curls lovely in fading light.
This is how she likes to remember him on the alter
Palms moist, waiting for his bride, waiting for her.
Rhythmic beatings of hearts.
Dark circles in her inner thighs today
Blackaned eyes, insomnia reigns.
We are not on the same page, she protests
To no one other than herself. Her stomach roars with solemn decline of youth
No more babies or flutters or butterflies. Her ankle no longer jingles with silver coins but artheritic pain. Dull in its essence like the grey skies above.
Youthful exuberance. Devil may care dances of the after- hours.
All but vanished in April showers.
The middle aged lady across the road
Resonates making waves in her aching bones.
“A quite retreat to my adolescent room, read and seek no one.”
Sought by no-one.
Sleep. Silent words. Mystery. A little post-modern touch. Le touch.
A touch of devil or devil may care: reborn in her corn. Today. Albeit fictional: no figs for her today. Just figment of her imagination. Ripened figs offered to gods and goddess of ancient lands. Rippling muscles carved in marbles. Flaming hair. Thundering gods with jealous rage. Olive grows in mist. Sweet scent of Jasmine like her namesake. Dusty books. Alas. Bringing lives of bygone era.
Socratic tales of