How the poet wrote his last work.

At the bank of the old black river the white echoes vibrated with what he shouted and laughed and everything seemed like fire flames. In ice cold thought his writing hand with pen moved toward chosen rows, a new release of poetic lines. Her hair waved in winds flowing with his words. He poured himself magic in the ink touched pages. And out of her. He really had loads of depth inside; he thought of being able to pour that out on the paper. A cool new world, to her thigh as black to white. Out of his icy mind and her flaming body he took a step back to view his work.

In the river

a bubble filled

with last breath.

2014 © Daniel L. Raven [Count Daniël Luchies]