Centaur and the Faerie Queen
As she twirls a blood red tulip between her fingers,
dogwood blossoms fall and cling to her hair like snow.
It is deep in Springtime
and midday sunlight filters through new leaves,
making, ever changing, antique lace patterns on her skin.
Teasing my view
I now and then glimpse the efflorescence of her *******,
and her body's perfect design.
The Faerie Queen,
strolling, floating, in a wildflower glade amid the newness of the season.
A ****** unknown to her,
through dreamy eyes, I secretly peer, drunk with the vision of her.
Tittled by the nakedness of her toes combing blades of grass,
with her eyes fixed on waxwings in a puddle bath,
she quietly laughs.
Startled, I laugh along with her.
Breaking my silence,
I drop my lyre.
The strings play an eerie dissident chord as I run off to the wood.
My hooves throwing sod,
my hair streaming in the wind.
LD Goodwin May 2014
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