Gather nightshades bliss
infuse with hemlocks laurel,
a potent potion

Melodic moments
a glance? Or a chance? She thought,
of melodies touch

Drifting consciousness
Flowing as madness unchained
Coup de’état untold

(…A brief instant which seemed torn
from a Pushkin play, was it Boris Godunov? Or was the motive political in nature? A stanza from “Ode to liberty”?

Perhaps she had grown tired of male incompetence, theft of the feminine ideas, trying to be bought off with petty returns…)

Ellipses eclipse
a sacrilegious swan song
crafted condition

Her eyes drifted back
to sun-kissed hair shimmering
amongst cold waters

Gentle touch of grace
female hands agreed to meet
an embrace of risk

A simple notion
loves greatest potion, a kiss
whence nightshade lingered