04 November 2009

The Magic Flute and the Neem Tree

She was perched underneath golden billows of curry and mosambi
And in mid-day dream
When she was walloped across the nape of her neck by sunset’s backhanded grapefruit fury
To the backdrop of fire flies lazily flickering as if on lunch break.
This is when the melody of bluegrass undertones hiding behind lambs skin and indecision brought life to her being by way of perdition.
It came on horseback and at an inconvenient time, as all things of this nature should.
He said his name was Sorrow.
And though his face was kind, and his eyes familiar,
She dare not remind him
Of their encounter many moons ago.
His name was Water then,
And she knew he wouldn’t remember.
She smiled...and studied the new contours of his face
For now she must love even his fallow parts.
His fingers were calloused and indigo now,
And
He wore burlap and satin
Worn shoes
And had a golden flute hanging from his left rear pocket that was
Dangling on crackling Neem leaves with healing and poison lodged ‘neath their bloodline
Lying on formaldehyde soaked grass blades.
He rested his peeling hands upon them
And piped a requiem for his anguish
As he played, she swayed like a windstorm catching the spirit
...watched him melt, kissed his neck.
Relished in this moment
And contrary to history's chorus
Sorrow dissipated at sunset...
The same way he came in;
On horseback and at an inconvenient time, as all things of this nature should...

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