The Minuscule Incubus

        
                                Some have theirs through passion’s fire.
                                Some have theirs through cruel abuse.
                                Some have theirs through love’s desire.
                                Some have theirs with no good excuse.
                                My own was given his incarnate form
                                the dark side of a late spring storm.
                                
                                I still do believe in it. No one else does.
                                They act like magic’s old-fashioned myth,
                                that it’s just me excusing the way I was
                                and a story to hide the one I was with.
                                In their eyes I’m simply a frivolous fool,
                                in the grand scheme of things minuscule.
                                
                                I’d needed to sleep off a life of drink
                                that too often’d lasted a night too long.
                                It doesn’t much matter what I may think
                                or whether what I think’s right or wrong.
                                I did have a choice but went home instead,
                                took a quick shower and rolled into bed.
                                
                                Before I made it to where I dreamed
                                I may’ve heard thunder. I don’t know
                                if in retrospect that’s how it seemed
                                or if my own head had made it so.
                                Either way, before long I found refuge
                                for my visions inside a black deluge.
                                
                                From shadows emerged an incubus,
                                singing enchantments as he neared.
                                I made room in my bed for the both of us
                                as his shirt and his jeans disappeared.
                                They say how a lover’s flesh never lies,
                                oh but how ours lay those stormy skies.
                                
                                The baby would’ve been a special boy.
                                The boy’d’ve grown for your girl’s mate.
                                Together the two’d’ve come to destroy
                                and having destroyed, then to recreate.
                                It wasn’t to be. My child was stillborn
                                in frosty ice one early winter morn.
                                
                                In the grand scheme, things’re minuscule
                                when you get to move on like it never was.
                                This was like that — as a general rule,
                                moving on’s what a girl like who I am does.
                                My incubus isn’t a memory I will keep
                                except when thunder disturbs my sleep.
                                
                                I can’t promise I mean the same of him
                                by acting abandoned now that he’s gone.
                                Whatever I’ve called him’s a pseudonym
                                hiding how deep inside his love goes on.
                                Inside me, that part of him will persist.
                                Inside him, my magic will always exist.
        

        


prompted by Fireblossom Friday: Build A Title
at the imaginary garden with real toads

Advertisements
This entry was posted in sestet and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

12 Responses to The Minuscule Incubus

  1. Marian says:

    whooosh, love this, wow. i believe!

  2. This is such an accomplished piece of writing. I can see that you have taken great pains in the story-telling, with deft use of rhyme, and an excellent flow within each stanza. And it’s one helluva dark tale.

  3. jabblog says:

    Very dark and it gives so much to think about – sad and charmed.

  4. Jinksy says:

    Enough to give us goose-pimples…

  5. You have told this tale so well, and the reader can definitely resonate with the painful events. Great write!

  6. after reading this poem for the third time today, each time i reached the last word i remembered,
    that i had forgotten to breath. i’m sorry, but that’s as much as i can say right now….

  7. Debi Swim says:

    Shades of “Rosemary’s Baby” – wowzers

  8. Love this ALL and this:

    “      They say how a lover’s flesh never lies,
                                    oh but how ours lay those stormy skies.”

    Especially!

    Awesome tale you’ve spun!

  9. Ella says:

    I too thought of Rosemary’s Baby!
    I too love the same lines as Hannah~
    So well done
    😀

  10. Goodness, Rosemary’s baby written with such class…well, that was what I was thinking in reading it. Perhaps it is more flesh and blood reality….terrifyingly sad if it was truth

  11. coalblack says:

    Quite a tale here. Thanks for adding this ambitious piece for my challenge.

    Coal (Fireblossom)

Comments welcome!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s