Standing on my head
The truth revealed in cards, pictures,
Slices of true self.
is this finally
the dreaded other shoe? and
if so, what to do?
Meet my husband
was all I said, but I think
that says everything.
Oh lookie here upon the ground –
what yummies do I see?
Delicious looking cakes I’ve found
all left here just for me.
I’ll swallow one – oh no, it’s hard.
It must’ve gotten stale.
But that’s ok, for my pillard
will take it, without fail.
I just don’t care what they all say.
I know I see a cake.
A rock they tell me – throw it away!
Your neck will surely break!
But swallow it, that’s what I did.
Oh no, I start to choke!
Will someone help me? Heaven forbid
that this is where I croak.
Oh thank you, kind and handsome sir
the one I see each day.
My servant surely, untrained cur,
he never goes away.
Ok, I’ve learned my lesson now.
I won’t make that mistake.
But look – there’s something on the ground.
Oh yay! Another cake!
Slip into a state of the other
where sunshine flows through
your silken hair and sky-bound prisms
mirror the spectrum of colors caught
in your iridescent eyes and
you speak softly of my beauty
of our power to pull forth
from our fertile soil new life
a far off dream, a so close fear
that you might love me
that you still dream of me
that you long to worship me
slip between worlds into my temple
and find your true self.
there are not, young one. Do not
be fooled by Darkness.
In the dark, lying face-to-face
the most intimate moment
of vulnerability, of openness, and
I smell, I taste the faint
hint of toothpaste, minty memory
hovering over the merest whiff
of tobacco, the remnant of your last
solitary walk outside for the night.
I drink them in, my bedtime aperitif,
dizzy and falling into your lingering mouth.
Drop me a line, oh blog-stalker of mine,
send me a comment, a post, a review.
You look, but don’t say much, but really that’s fine.
The truth is, my one loyal reader is you.
I know that it is you, you see, without fail
Because no one comes by here as much as you do.
My family would tell me, would ride me, would rail.
No one else that I know is as quiet as you.
But never desert me, sweet one I can’t see.
It’s nice just to have you, anonymously.
It was the color only
for royalty, once.
On pain of death
no one would dare
to stand and
in my regal plum, my
hubris on display
in the lush folds
of my wine-soaked robes.
But now, in this age
when any, when all
live better than kings
they don the garb
of high priestesses
the goddesses with
of spun cotton, woven
into tapestries of power
they wear on their skin
for the bargain price
of less than an hour’s labor.
We are all regal, now.