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Stolen Sylph Wings
by Max Bouillet"Wisps of time
curl between Her lips
like misted breath
on a frosty day."
Sylphs dance on
Her wind-blown kisses
until summer rains
pelt them to the ground.
Frustrated, aroused,
and denied flight,
they roll in mud
with earthbound creatures
until they are satiated
and fall asleep in the arms
of mud-dwellers
awestruck with their enchantment
and myth.
Only when the rain stops
and they wake
groggy-eyed and wingless,
do they realize
they have been caged
by envious men
--jealous of flight,
jumping off cliffs
with pilfered sylph wings
ecstatic with a few moments
of stolen magic
before breaking their
damn necks. 06/04/2005 Posted on 06/04/2005
Copyright © 2024 Max Bouillet
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 06/04/05 at 08:04 PM I sense the passion of Gibran, coupled with the humor of Twain and you have the perfect marriage in a Bouillet. |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 06/05/05 at 01:29 AM Hahaha! Can't help laughing. But they are such fun to watch. We watched several launch and fly and land in Genieve, Switzerland. Great fun to watch. None of them broke their necks! :) Your work its usual symbolic use of words, this time rather sardonic! |
| Posted by Charles E Minshall on 06/09/05 at 04:15 AM The last lines caught me by surprise. Funtastic
read Max...Charlie |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 06/12/05 at 10:05 AM Fanciful flights of satyr-laden poetry seldom mythed - tastefully opportune and opinionated scenario pinioned to the page. |
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