Metaphoric Mistletoe [sonnet]
I lost my best friend when she feigned the frost
of secrecy across our river’s flow –
all traces of our intimacy lost
with every metaphoric mistletoe.
What strange invasion made her disenthral
(uninstall, unmerge) her helpmeet status
(now I’m in an alien hiatus),
as black paint smeared her fear on every wall?
Though, if I listen to the music played
behind her silences and words and skin,
then Venus can be heard in retrograde
which wrestles with her stifled love within.
I see her clearly through her new disguise
(and also see right through her ungoodbyes).
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 