In her fifteenth year,
She was but an Artemis,
armed with a consistently cracked shield of conformity
and arrows dipped in the pestilential wells of pubescent grief.
While nubile nymphs pranced around him,
vying for a meaningful glance,
She remained in her chrysalis,
oblivious to this Mars peering through the gaps...
sketching her emerging form long before it emerged
With wings unbound and flight plans etched across Apollo's skies,
vibrant streams of color to rival St. Elmo's fire...
She found herself, one day,
carried by a virulent wind to that tree,
which vibrated under the first timid knocks of her wings against the webbed walls
For Demeter had pacified Persephone's winter sorrow
by granting her daughter an attendant.
Persephone crossed the river Styx... hands laced with those of a muse
The nymphs feigned mourning,
while tabulating their percentile
in "the maturation" beauty pageant
While the new creature,
whirled in the apathetic tsunami of mortality.
And in this spiraling of grief,
she passed the temple doors
Acknowledging a gaze of smiling awe from the man,
whose prophetic intuition had been realized.
Realized...and then evolved
With a correspondence allowing her a jezebel mask,
and Lauren Bacall drags of her cigs,
each falling ember of ash
the dropping of one Salome's veils.
She feigns the invocation of Lolita, ignoring Celemine's insidious whispers...
For with each double click of the "Send Now" button
Heloise' prayer clasped hands pry open.
His words are her daily bred
And she dines on
Hors D'oeuvres garnished with nostalgia
and salads dressed in timidity
She cleanses her palate of propriety,
And sips her vodka tonic, her throat bathed in
the fiery purity of his confessions
She swallows a bouillabaisse of daily strife and victory
spiced with witty barbs and self deprecating humor,
distilling the wafting aroma of thinly veiled coquetry
For in her twenty-fifth year she willfully beckons the inner Aphrodite,
and has made peace with her Artemis.
He invites her to dance,
and she is bemused by their symbiotic rhythm
The song on the jukebox is on repeat...
an ancient Wurlitzer sheltering Echo.
Change the song.... ?
Will the Gods remonstrate,
with the ringing of an alarm
To wake this Puck induced perfection
Or, could a Mid-Summer's night dream,
really exist in the stark rays of daylight and reality?
One would have to press another song...