The Poet’s Tale

There once was a poet (for isn’t there always?)
Who sat by a pond in the night, looking up at the
Stars. Admiring their scattered beauty and distant
Divinity, the water flowed smoothly and soundlessly,
Its scent in the air brought him closer to nature than
He had ever been, changing the course of his mind into
That of its reflection, washing the poet’s problems away.
The poet continued to look at the stars until the started
To change into something even more beautiful and
Divine, the stars moved, rather danced, through the night
Sky and formed into the face of his first love. The poet,
Transfixed by this, took out the writing pad and pen he
Kept with him and began writing. The next time he looked up,
The stars turned into the face of his dead mother, and so the
Poet started writing on a new page. When the pot looked up again
The stars had changed into the face of a girl he didn’t know but
Was striking, if not outright gorgeous. The outlines of her face
Were clearer than anything the poet saw in his life. Clearer than
His love’s eyes when he first kissed her, clearer than his mother
In the coffin, clearer than when his first love
Broke his heart. The stars seemed to connect and form
The face in brilliant white light, then they began to condense
Into a human form and the form began to descend upon the
Poet. The writing pad and pen long forgotten in his hands, the
Poet wanted to run but couldn’t move, his mouth agape, his eyes
Wide, hypnotized by the divinity occurring before him. The form
Came down and cupped the poet’s face and lay upon him a kiss
Not meant for mortal lips.
The sheer ecstasy, the power, the force, the passion was beyond
Anything the poet had ever felt. A white light coursed through his
Body as he embraced a spiritual experience that made sex pale in
Comparison (his first orgasm was nowhere close to this). The poet
Grabbed the form’s face and kissed back with equal passion and
The two became one, the form infusing with the poet’s body and
Giving him new life and meaning, a new purpose.
When the experience ended and the stars resumed their ordinary
Existence, the poet again picked up his writing pad and pen and
Began to write with a fever, a creative spontaneity that even the
Most optimized mortal would never reach, his hand moving
With a will of its own and flowing as smoothly as water in a
Still pond. When the poet was finished he didn’t bother to look
At the pad, just put it down and lay upon the grass and stared
The stars in all their divinity, all of his problems and sorrows
Washed away.

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