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

Pleasurable spring.

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

Spread around

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

What else?

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





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