Fabrice Poussin writes

Your Story

She sits by the light of a dying moon
pages framed by the shade of a somber eye
stars barely glimmer in the stormy skies. 


Erect she is in the comfort of her stance
one hand in her lap gently poised upon a thigh
the other caressing the velum of a forgotten story. 


She senses the heat of a steaming brew
flickering as the light of an old soul
just above the pages she hesitates to devour. 


Words seem to hover over the sepia sheet
so alive she cannot help but be captured
by the voice she imagines of a grand narrator. 


It is as a thread form the wavy surface to her breast
steel shackles upon her fragile ankles
but she surrenders willingly to the dream she sought. 


Her eyes closed she inhales the aroma
to let the tale invade the very fibers of her soul
placing palms onto the volume ecstasy prevails. 


Small as a tomb the room echoes with her sighs
its walls tremble as if alive with fluttering wings
in a glow paragraphs wrap her spirit in their fire. 


Something unknown moves below the breast
she feels a sublime invasion of her senses
now that voice at last also belongs to her.