Whoosh, the air swirls about the cavernous walls,
twirling the smoke from the flickering flames of
the candelabra that casts soft golden rays on the
long ago extinguished logs in the cold empty hearth.
The blue moon of late October's evening light parades
outside the chamber window, throwing moonbeams with
just enough sparkles of rays to enfold the suite of the
long departed Prima Donna,
Who, one night, sang her last Italian aria of love before
suddenly, without preparation, passed over into the worlds beyond,
still adorned in her red satin and white lace trimmed gown
having just ended an embrace of her lover in the song.
Now, this bella donna....
she's been pining with unrequited love
for her casanova for blue moon upon blue moon,
every October she returns ever searching but,
alas, never to find him evermore.
|
Author Notes
Picture This club challenge, My free verse impression of the graphic
|
|
