The Kiss of the Muse
By John M. Marshall
The kiss was born in her.
Her kiss caressed us.
Her flame enlightened us.
She came to us,
a soft lover surrendering.
She enfolded us.
Her wings caressed a delicate desire within us.
We danced with her,
with her radiant wings.
Her kiss touched the sun,
touched our hearts,
captivated by its poignancy.
Her kiss told us secrets of the stars.
Her delicate mouth a flower,
a fantasy of fire
pirouetting in a whisper.
Her flower loved us,
exquisite in its surrender.
Her lilting fire loved us,
beautiful in its passion.
The sun was in her eyes.
The sun danced in her gaze.
He sang her song as he moved,
flew swiftly with her breathing.
Her soft kiss gave us desire.
Her mouth gave us dreams.
We fell upon her wings,
fell desiring
sweet fantasy.
Angels
Above the silver bardic bells
angels sow their mystic seed
upon the mantled mirrored maze,
as they sing the myriad's mass.
The motive mistrals' maiden masque
mimes the crescent chrysalid crèche
that holds the starry cryptic creed,
the crystal coronal coptic code.
Above the holy harvest host
the northern lights spread their wings.
They charge the wondrous dancing whorls
with lightning from their burnished breath.
They flash the plumes of their velvet verse
with vapors of dew and veils of mist,
whisking winds of the chambered chariot
that holds the changeling cherub's crown.
Above the cambered cosmic course,
upon the sacred celestial loom,
angels stitch the sylvan seam
astride the manna's mysterious mare.
jmarshall3@ec.rr.com John M. Marshall lives in
Wilmington, North Carolina, near Cape Fear. He is one of the people behind Ravens Three
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