| A Counterfeit Madonna |
Time spins itself into five o’clock,
Thought it’s still dark outside,
And the moon hides her egged iridescence,
My calendar claims the morning.
I sit myself atop a kitchen chair,
My mind a mosaic of memories.
My pen is angry, it will not write for me,
And I search desperately for a thesaurus.
I nurse a cup of coffee, a friend found
In the bottom of a winter mug, my meager solace
For the blank page that keeps me awake.
Tonight my eyes refuse to close.
Like a Cyclops I meander through the words,
I paste my Madonna smile there near the top
Where the edges of my paper crumble
And a few verbs are left wandering.
Michael Angelo would have christened me on paper,
A classic portrait of pastels and shadowed depth,
My fake face immortalized on canvas,
Wrinkled around the edges but not afraid to smile.
Appearing in Deeper Than Pink, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2009
Thought it’s still dark outside,
And the moon hides her egged iridescence,
My calendar claims the morning.
I sit myself atop a kitchen chair,
My mind a mosaic of memories.
My pen is angry, it will not write for me,
And I search desperately for a thesaurus.
I nurse a cup of coffee, a friend found
In the bottom of a winter mug, my meager solace
For the blank page that keeps me awake.
Tonight my eyes refuse to close.
Like a Cyclops I meander through the words,
I paste my Madonna smile there near the top
Where the edges of my paper crumble
And a few verbs are left wandering.
Michael Angelo would have christened me on paper,
A classic portrait of pastels and shadowed depth,
My fake face immortalized on canvas,
Wrinkled around the edges but not afraid to smile.
Appearing in Deeper Than Pink, Copyright © of Stacy Lynn Mar 2009
| ~A woman who writes feels too much, those trances and portents! As if cycles and children and islands weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips and vegetables were never enough. She thinks she can warn the stars. A writer is essentially a spy. Dear love, I am that girl.~ Anne Sexton |
| Stacy Lynn Mar |