Under a nectarine sky, the wheel stopped spinning under <br />intense pressure as the cloud turned into a woman with intense <br />dark eyes, hidden behind her golden veil, trimmed with dark <br />lace, dangling with shimmering crystals; and the lace, <br />tempted the eyes to look at her and lust for her, tempted <br />wavering winds to caress her brow and tempted wavering <br />men to lower themselves prostrate, becoming slave men. <br /> <br />Worshipping her wistful ways, they bowed, worshipping <br />her by caressing her feet, brushing the cobwebs off her <br />desert skin, the webs of many men captured in her desert. <br /> <br />Dreams of color danced in her eyes, the changing dreams <br />unrolled before them like a feast, the feast unrolled <br />before starving men who never knew hunger before. <br /> <br />Like the wind, she is like magic, dervishly dancing like <br />lavender dust over an amethyst oasis, her lavender <br />lips pouring shadows into their souls, while their lips <br />call her name as drops of death fall in their mouths, call <br />her to come to them and slake their thirst with a drink from her <br />well - her wholesome well - her Heaven-on-Earth well. <br />Wishing they could drink from her lips, they died: wishing.<br /><br />Linda Marie Van Tassell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-mirage-serpentine-verse/
