a story (adding words as the story goes....)

...She went about her own business, without fail... planting seeds of love, of lust, here, there.... By now, he was smitten,
totally and undeniably...both had seasons behind them,  both still sleeping in the same bed of dreams... oceans between
their fingertips.. she was their wave, crashing into the sun, he was their untamed sea...and so it was that their story
had begun..  A smile of recognition passed from one to the other... like a cloudburst, like a tear. 

It wasn't her first excursion, nor would it be her last. she surmised..... she was fast becoming an on-line lover...learning all the tricks of her trade from the men who had captured her attention in one unique how-do-you-do or another.   Poets were such an easy target, she thought,  as if they had a bulls-eye over  their hearts.  Sometimes she even felt a bit of guilt, of remorse for what was becoming so second nature to her... falling in love.

She couldn't help but remember how she loved to fall in love but still hadn't learn to stay in love.

And that old-snake-eyed Loneliness makes cripples even amoung the bravest samurai, remembering the German Zen Master with whom she clashed swords last year.   Yes.  She loved him through and through except for that taste in her mouth.  Metal.  Blood. Death. And there is no glory in death, really.... since the show must go on for the living... Quite an ignoble act, when you think about it.  She always won that battle.  How can anyone lose who doesn't admit defeat?

2.

Yes, she thought, she was a user.  Undeniably and systematically.  She had learned not to shy  or to turn away from anything
that life handed her.  Who can, really, anyway?  She had worked through that whole ball of wax her entire life, with and in
all kinds of escapades... so called spiritual ones as well as  the endless blind-sided by reality (with a capital "R") ones. 
It's not as if she was immune or bored, though there were elements of both in her mind; it's just that, one has to admit
to a serious lack of control even if it doesn't mean defeat in the usual sense.  And the net provided her with plenty of
resources.  If she were a vampire, it would be "fresh kill', she reasoned.  However, she was not a vampire, sucking
the life blood out of the men she was involved with.  And thank God, she had no issues with the sun for she loved
sunrise the best.  She adored that silence just before the world imploded with sound and light..  It was Spring in
Ohio and this Spring was magnificent. 

She loved falling in love now,  when all the creatures of the earth were in a frenzied love-fest.  There was
a certain rhythm in that, and it's not difficult to be caught with one's panties down.  It's to be expected.  At least
her most recent lover would think so.


3. 

Shit.  She was angry now, the truth had been relentless with her.  It used her.  She was an unwilling instrument
in its hands.  Poets allowed themselves to be "easy marks".   How could she not have seen that before?  Or perhaps
she did, it just hadn't sunk into her completely.  As if the act of making love, in any of the realms:  physical, emotional
or spiritual would absolve her somehow.  She hadn't considered that, "absolution" for she was neither religious or
spiritual, more of modern-day pagan.  And absolution was for sinners, had she somehow sinned?  No, sinning was
not even in her vocabulary, then why was absolution?  What was she hiding from?  Or more precisely, who?


4.

She was the last of her breed, or perhaps the first.  Time will write that tale for it's not been foretold.

Not absolutely beautiful in the usual sense, nor young nor old.  Perhaps timeless in her beauty, inside out (outside in?).  Homeostasis has never been one of humanity's strong points, nor should it be, as reasonings go.  Yet here she
is, writing.  And if something of the reader is listening, it's a story of acquaintances, kindred spirits and cosmic beings
having a go with the terminality of life itself... As if the sun could set once and for all.  As if the moonrise could usher in
another reality. 

Tears sometimes flowed for her, seemingly from nowhere.. and tears always heralded in an imminent and abrupt change
in her reality.  She was shedding again.


5.

Itching. That annoyingly predictable Itching..... Like a butterfly, she would shed her wings; iridescent feathers lay scattered throughout her home.  In the sunlight, you'd swear they were mirrors; and in the darkness, well how could there be any real darkness?   This is who she was, how it happened and continues to happen.  She is the angel of death, after all; the last of
her kind. 



















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