Linda Marie Van Tassell
A Mirage (Serpentine Verse)
Under a nectarine sky, the wheel stopped spinning under
intense pressure as the cloud turned into a woman with intense
dark eyes, hidden behind her golden veil, trimmed with dark
lace, dangling with shimmering crystals; and the lace,
tempted the eyes to look at her and lust for her, tempted
wavering winds to caress her brow and tempted wavering
men to lower themselves prostrate, becoming slave men.
Worshipping her wistful ways, they bowed, worshipping
her by caressing her feet, brushing the cobwebs off her
desert skin, the webs of many men captured in her desert.
Dreams of color danced in her eyes, the changing dreams
unrolled before them like a feast, the feast unrolled
before starving men who never knew hunger before.
Like the wind, she is like magic, dervishly dancing like
lavender dust over an amethyst oasis, her lavender
lips pouring shadows into their souls, while their lips
call her name as drops of death fall in their mouths, call
her to come to them and slake their thirst with a drink from her
well - her wholesome well - her Heaven-on-Earth well.
Wishing they could drink from her lips, they died: wishing.
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