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.

        

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