All roads lead to Rome, they say--
But the legions,
In their breast plates,
With their red plumes, and brilliant strategies,
Are screwed VII ways to Sunday,
Dead beneath the gravel,
Knocked flat by fat babies
And little black crickets.
Ladies whose looks went centuries ago,
Their domes are as empty as old flower pots.
Beyond this gate,
There is a horse in a paddock
And laundry on a line.
What fool put them so close together?
I don't know...
All I'm sure of,
Is that the grass here smells sweet,
The sunset is pretty,
And that I want more than anything
To feel my back against the post,
Your lips against mine,
And your fingertips at my cheek.
Do what the sleeping legions can't do--
Open the gate, sweet honey,
And pass through.
for Kenia's photo challenge at Real Toads. The bottom photo is hers.
Written while drinking Bolthouse Farms vanilla chai tea, which I am convinced helps me to be creative. It's irrelevant whether this is true. It only matters that I *believe* that it is true!