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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
some people come across just like this at Christmas .
but they're there all the time

Submitted: December 22, 2008

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Submitted: December 22, 2008



She came once more on her rapturous breeze ;
Of Glamour friom the charity night , for the cathedral's steeple.
She came she saw
And with her alabaster brow
Swooned once , but briefly, at the bellhop boy .
Someone said she was in boy-fish humour
So they said .she’d said

She led ; they followed, to a house of lobster
Where exacerbations of rapture
Seared the night ,
At least existentially.

Rapture shifted and , she was
Stupendous in the coming dawn.
Whenshe did capture
And sifted from that sacred pasture

The gypsy treasure player .
That was not hers to pleasure .
She came ,conquered and destroyed
What was not hers to bed , or so flamboyantly despoil.

On Christmas Eve the gypsy boy;
He sells paintings on the street
He sees her amble by but has no urgings to repeat
His treat

She wonders if their dalliance could have left him replete
Or incomplete;

From a side street appears a vision
A whirlwind on the winter street
Taps her shoes ;on the cobble stones and the flamenco
Takes on its urging beat .

In a kaleidoscope or colour
Of their eternal rhythm of their race
Of their passion he picks a leaning guitar
And just as quickly picks up the pace.

For he knows her being
Her every odour
And in this splendid passionate hour
He gives to her an ardour that is not fleeing.

She hurries on through the waves of
Inconsequential people ;
Throws a penny at a cripple,
She'll see husband charges well
For his services for that fucking steeple

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