She is the sunshine
Between the mountains

She is the calm
Before the storm

She is the cloud
On a rainy day

She is the dream
in your reality

She is
who she is

and not
everyone understands
that

Oh what a goddess she was.
Feeling one with nature deeply.
Howling like a wolf to the moon at night.
Creating  flower crowns in the early morning dew.
Sending a message to everyone she passed.
Making sure that everybody knew.

.
He is just another notch
     on her sterile bed of love.
He is just another victim
     of conquest for her thighs.
She is just another link
     in his daisy chain of woe.
She is just another span
     on his long bridge of sighs.


© Pagan Paul (21/05/17)

Shes a young woman in a red flower dress.
Surrounded by a charm of hummingbirds.
A young girl full of forbidden energy flickering in the gloom.
Ardent to compensate through the indulgence in sense of pleasure. An attempt to extinguish dissatisfaction by gratifying desire.
The approach gives pleasure, but the won is gross, transitory and devoid of deep contentment.
She prays but gets no special dispensation for this believe now.
A sobbing whisper in the throat of a mermaid.
All is left is to transcend by recognition of the futility of desire.
She found her middle way, now she must give rise to vision, which will rise to knowledge and lead her to inner peace.

she gave me her cell #,
in a crowded bar
inked upon my forearm,
"in case in my drunkness, I dare forget,"
a common come-on technique,
that reeks of all good things to come

but I failed to see,
in the little letters,
"@ your own peril"

a warning, poorly heeded,
inflaming my now unimaginable
needy neededs,
just a **** come on,
or a warring warning of tumult,
vampirish blood *******?

with cautious haste,
her number I did paste
into my contact list,
'in case of loss, call,'
when sudden notifications galore,
came unbidden from everywhere:

Are you really sure?

these digits seems were posted on a
Do Not Call list,
maintained by monks and bro's,
no, no, not a list of
what-rhymes-with-bro's,
but of fallen angels,
who knew the secrets of heaven

the price extracted for their revealing,
could cause you life long
arthritis of the heart,
per the Surgeon General,
for which the only cure,
endure, endure, endure...

the prize?

endless wonderful new poems, freely given,
but with one strictest of restrictions,
if published,
it meant your slow extinction!

that is why the world calls me
Poet of the Way,
forever trying to find a way,
to away these treasured glories

then one day,
he laughed and laughed,
when he first he read the magic key,
your poem, successfully saved on
Hello Poetry!

and now the poet endures,
even possibly, self-saved,
quite happily