The Hall of Hauhet

A poem built around the fantasy of winning the love of a girl. She might be a lover, but she ain't no dancer.

Comments welcome

I stood
in the hall of Hauhet,
with its obsidian
spires scraping sky,
and watched
a crescent satellite
perform its exquisite minuet;
And in that pensive moment,
as I stood,
lost in the eurythmics of it all,
I saw myself,
the headliner
of a burlesque dramalogue,
each tear carefully choreographed,
my eyes adusk
in crepuscular glee;
And somewhere in the indistinctness,
amongst the backdrop
of the hush-hush murk,
I felt your passionate sigh,
warm against my skin,
and your knowing caress
upon my shoulder.
In florid fashion
we danced about,
moving-together, together-moving,
to the euphonious rhyme 
of a symphonic poem,
moving-together, together-moving
into the tenuous nether, 
of primordial penumbra.

The End

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