Returning to air rarefied,

refined, lucid prism arc

turning dark hill-top trees

into lino-cut likenesses,

my adventure just over or

maybe just begun, who knows?

I am an incompetent judge.


This smitten mortal,

swift with tender sweetmeats

treasures and morsels stuffed

with lust and tenderness

unnerves me. I mistrust his

cloying riches, more used

to thriftier, simpler fare.


Sister One wisely suggests

I need to grow accustomed

slowly, ‘Get used to it girl,

it doesn’t always have to be

Rock n Roll’ she says. I laugh

for that is what I seem to require,

although I don’t know why.


Sister Two listens and says

‘you deserve to be cherished.’

I laugh again, wanting to agree,

modesty curbing my hubris.

To believe it would demand

such faith in one mere mortal.







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