While you have been dead these many years,
I have heard pagan
calls
desiring me to lift your pale body from the sea,
Now
with garlanded throat of seaweed,
lie bones that once held flesh
of a rare beauty
who, unmindful, cast away life's dream.
the camera caught your every move.
On scrolls of celluloid imprinted all your phantasmal years.
So that now, and forever,
you must raise your hips,
to meet that quickening thrust
of some Lothario's pagan lust
and form your mouth into that same eternal O,
eyes wide with some unseen wonder,
as you take all of it... and now but bones.
You had limos and stayed
in a house of glass upon a hill,
and for all the world gave, it seemed,
but a pretty face for it.
Closets full of shining clothes....
Now what's left of you must wear a mermaid's robe.
And yet the eternal illusion of beauty
lives,
still draws a finger poised upon a photograph
to trace
glossy lips of paper under glass.
And yet you slipped into the sea.
What were you seeking there?
Why leave your gilded throne?
The acclaim?
The worship of your many thanes?
What was it beckoned on that glittering sea?
Some siren song, that drew you lost in reverie?
One wonders... how easily you cast it all aside;
with one graceful step, lost forever in a swirl of brine.
