One Fallen Star Poem by Patti Masterman

The passion grows, hurrying you along faster now
as mad as a derelict muse, whispering impossible things
through the many, weeping pinpricks of a day.

Her voice could hold back the rippling seas,
shimmy the pebbles closer to shore,
as a hidden breast cleaves itself, to fold within
each living, dying, precarious thing.

Is the soul just another flowered flesh, lacking roots?
while laughter spreads, like a distant memory of heartache-
the tongue the less pointed instrument, of dying.

The anticipation arouses brash gestures,
as sweet fires run the gamut, of body to mind,
while a lovely pounding surf assails all the senses:

She will take you as you are-
but only the length of one fallen star..