What manner of man is this who searches to find that part of me I call my soul?
A gentle knight of days long past? I say not, for I have seen the man in his nakedness.
I know this master of dragons who speaks in words of jeweled pursuation,
the dragonslayer who tantalizes with Shakespearean eloquence.
I listen intently to his words as they fall rhythmiclly upon the page.

I, the meek and gentle maid have another face that turns to day.
Out of my despair was built a dark castle covered with brambles.
It's thorny spires reach upward searching for light to wash it's empty halls.
Echos of love and laughter are silent in this place.
Only memories haunt it's dusty rooms.
There are no risks here in my shallow grave, none shall be taken.
I wear a gown of lace, torn and tattered.
Barefoot, I walk through this life only awaiting the next.

But when the moon is full, the owl cries from the forest deep,
and the only sound is the night wind swirling through the trees,
it is then that I arise from that hollow exsistance.
It is here the temptress unveils herself adorned in velvet, garlanded in gold,
creamy white shoulders inviting touch.

Here, she chats politely, catching the eye of this one then that one.
Her elegance hides the secret she carries. She is the key by which fantasy's door is opened.
She wears passion as a fitted glove, basking in it's warmth, savoring it's richness
then putting it away at the end of the evening with her momentos.

Sally 1999-2005

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