The Poet

The Poet

Sunday, April 16, 2017

She Wore Midnight by Anthony Stevens ©2017

The priest droned on, with routine sadness.
Hurried clouds wept streams o'er colored glass.
Wrinkled and shrunken by time's cruel passing,
She was almost lost in the hard wood casing.

Distant thunder softly sounded, once, twice, thrice,
A fourth was louder, then repeat, even tones, nice.
Thunder? No! A hidden drumbeat. Rain like fabric moving
The priest offended while a mourner was half-smiling.

The half-sad husband tapped his fingers in drumbeat time.
His growling voice slowly rose in an ancient ryhme.
All present startled at the ringing sound of zills.
Short hairs rose on arms and necks. A draft chills.

All eyes wide at movement from between racks of dead blooms.
Smooth, youthful beauty, a whisp of silk, a girdle of coins,
Lithe muscles moving with erotic grace at the drum's soft beat.
Close thunderflash dismissed bright light. Left only candle's heat.

Glowing, smiling, dancing, writhing, she moved closer.
The old man, palsied hands drummed his knees, missed her.
She wore midnight as she knelt before him, he kissed her.
Harsh red emergency lights revealed a dead man, beside her bier.

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