Portmanteau

Drear behind, sunshine ahead

Fleet are the feet of Poe.

Emma drops down the hem of her gown

Her stems curl up beneath her

Her face to the skies, filling her eyes

Warm and wet, they glow.

Closer- near, Poe can almost hear her sighs

His worry lends strength to his hurry and

Away he flies, he flies!

Pale and fading, Emma goes wading

in a pool between here and there.

Welcoming mists wrap ‘round her wrists

as a breeze teases her hair.

Arriving too late, Poe clutches the gown by the lake,

both hopelessly empty.

Hearing a sound, he spins around—

her face beseeching, arms reaching, pulling him in and down.

Senses fill and burst, entwined they wind from one to another

No sooner born than lost, PoEmma wisps away.

 

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