He wrote the
myth of
himself
every time
the story danced out
of his mouth
on bourbon scented
breath.
He had a shock
of untamed hair,
and a bullet-proof
countenance
that was pleasant
enough
but it was the words-
his self-proclaimed
legend-
and the colors
that he painted them-
with deft
brushstrokes
of sweet tea
sinful flirtations
in graveled
Southern drawl,
that made them
want him.
She was a
Christ church woman.
A singer of praise,
gifted with angelic spirit,
a soulful
doorway to
Gods own throne,
her heavenly form
that of a
girl
perpetually
fresh blossomed,
slender and soft.
Hanging on his
musings
she would
smile at him
with her
eyes;
greenest gems
of exotic
faraway lands,
glued to every
foolish thing
he’d do.
They shared time
in stolen moments.
He was not her man.
Together
they breathed in
the arts,
and music
and a love of love
or at least
it’s game.
And she would
share her joys with him
and other times her pain.
Softened
he would tell
her of his
broken life;
a dark
and twisted tale
of lost love
and pin prick
highs.
I wonder how
many have fallen
in love
with you.
All of them,
he’d say
a Superman smile,
and she thought
it might be
true.
The short lived
romance
a screeching tire
car flight
through heavy traffic
dangerous and loud
and lastly a
twisted heap of burning
metal-
the wreckage
of reckless lust.
10,000
bottles later ,
and nearly as many
poems,
he’d
recall her,
fondly,
all of them but one.
