His mind-flights stir in him
Enhanced by the absence of his Muse
A series of lines and imaginary shapes
He hastens to place on a sheet of paper
Into his black & silver journal
While he sits back and recalls the
Lovemaking of last night.
In a breathless wrangle with his dark
Angel or Muse or the love she’d
Created in his last poetic legend.
His mouth open. Dry. Gasping.
His hands fastening on the body of
His beloved in a sea of a warm and
Waking to a strange noise
Lying across in the wide bed
A neck-roll between his thighs
Just like a body…
He’d check his bed and the cushions
But the sleeping partner gone.
How a full moon would beam down
His imaginary dream of love
He’d probably watched on arte
Erotic scenes of a French movie
Has predictions of his Muse come
She’d promised to keep him going
Declaring him a poet of love
In a Café’s first floor at Mitrepoleos
Twenty-one years ago.
It seems all not real now.
But also not all born in his