A poem for Mamoe (Nicole)

“Get o’er here!” you bid me join
And I, transfixed at Dawn,
But gape at you, my dear; and he, and the revellers at Dusk

The Revellers:
The conceited dance ballet,
Twirling in pairs with a swirl
Their slender lithe bodies swish through the air
Imposing arrogant silhouettes on the wall
Which shimmers, as if resentful of their delicacy;
From that beam through the door;
But the splendid parquetry deceives,
Some pairs slip and slump on the cold hard floor.

You, my dear, are serene;
Mellowed by the serenade.

Twilight is dying, dusk is born;
Night is growing old,
It is getting darker and darker.
The pairs embrace and kindle a passion halo.
The glow of such embrace is mediocre,
They find a warmer glow ‘neath each other’s tutus and breeches,
But the flame of such warmth singes;
By and by, some ballerinas change girdles
With bigger ones as buds sprout in their bellies.

By and by, the foolish tire;
And tumble from prancing as injured knight horses
You, my dear; and he, are radiant, your eyes sapphire!
Are you part of the revelers?

Prancing and ballet have grown banal
The revellers decide to improvise the flue’s melody
Of fumes whirling flippantly; stifling your smile,
Some imitate the Sponge and get drenched
Other play nurse with syringes
And strange pills:
Inviting Grim Reaper.

I join you on the moonlit balcony;
You titter as you marvel at the starry sky
Oh dear; your titter is irony
To he, “We resemble the twin stars” you say;
And to me, “The Little White Dwarf-lovelorn”
You laud the intimacy twin stars portray;
My dear, the stars are but gleaming
Pearls studded on a brine of darkness
How paradoxical? I am longing,
For a caress
Akin to your lambent embrace unto he my dear
And I grope on this little stair,
Teenage, where caresses and embraces but flare!

Time flaps her wings fast my dear, time flies
The colt in me cannot keep pace with her
“Give free rein to your cravings,” she says,
“Consider the brevity of life!”-Even so my dear,
I have become frigid,
To the sweet aromas and aphrodisiac melodies;
Mirages clogged my mind, my neurons frayed.
My puritanism, and gravitas;
They are fabrics of a stale fashion of preservation.

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Copyright © Victor Gordon

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