by Willailla ©
While you have been dead
these many years,
I have heard pagan calls
desiring me to lift
your pale body from the sea,
with garlanded throat of seaweed,
bones that once held flesh
of a rare beauty, who, unmindful,
cast away life's dream.
Naked in the arms of many lovers,
the camera caught your every move.
On scrolls of celluloid imprinted all your
phantasmal years.
So that now, and forever,
you must raise your hips,
to meet the quickening thrust
of some Lothario's pagan lust
and form your mouth into that same eternal O,
eyes wide with some unseen wonder,
as you take all of it...
and now but bones.
You had limos and stayed
in a house of glass upon a hill,
and for all the world gave, it seemed,
but a pretty face for it.
Closets full of shining clothes....
Now what's left of you must
wear a mermaid's robe.
And yet the eternal illusion
of beauty lives,
still draws a finger poised upon a photograph
to trace glossy lips of paper under glass.
You had life's dream...
And yet you slipped into the sea.
What were you seeking there?
Why leave your gilded throne?
The acclaim?
The worship of your many thanes?
What was it beckoned on that glittering sea?
Some siren song, that drew you lost in reverie?
One wonders...
how easily you cast it all aside;
with one graceful step,
lost forever in a swirl of brine.