The prophet reads from his home
and can imagine nothing better than
to live without a woman,
this woman who slides her voice
into his ear
like poisoned chocolate.
Broken promises, whispered
between two and four,
melt like dew
at the slender feet of the sun.
But they rise, phoenix-like,
and threaten her cruelty again.
When will he sing again?
Wearily--after again too late a night--
he closes his eyes, he
cannot bear to see her disappointment.
Copyright (c) 1998 {hamlet}Ophelia