A Maiden, Crone and Goddess

THE MAIDEN: My little Juliette, my hand floating over her back; and her tiny hand with mine. Now, we all sing songs to Capulet. And they all pause; they are enthralled. Younger lads know their remedy; no, not strong drink - whatever you think. But, like if the gleaming sun is her virginity; that power of light is her affinity. In the late hour, I did inspire her, in her bower, her bosom to bloom and blossom. I saw she and she me, with a wide look of glee, wild eyes and heartbeats of jubilee. She was not toward I, nor I to her, persnickety. We fell fast together, authentically. THE CRONE: That crone, witch and total %#&^%. She made everything a hitch, and brought today's sorrow, and brings more curses the morrow. Her. In The Brothel. She is there in every hovel. Her coiled brown hair, that brings my passions to bare. The desires all around us. 'Why does she bother' you ask? Her nails pushing and rummaging under my skin, raking the hair of my arms. I can smell her now. Her soft perfumes. And. Also. It is night. And so she wrapped me tight, yet it was all hollow. I wish I could forget it now. THE GODDESS: And there! The goddess in the pale moon, she walks and talks and makes the willows swoon. She walks and talks to me, and causes romance to loom. The way sunlight moves around her hair, and the breezes that pushes against her form. The gold of sunshine in the tall grasses, where we did roam. The Pixies sit up there, over the brook. In the trees, at night, above her shoulders, while the water laps moonlight. The smell of pines and saplings, and the colors, glaring off the ice, and, the never ending sheens of summer. Her hand in mine. S.M. Diamond 7/01/2019