Fabrice Poussin writes

Tickling her Soul
 
How gentle the tickling of a soul
he nurtures with sweet beating grains
sand of passing hours upon the flesh. 


Armed with celestial vision
nothing is a secret to the one who
sees through the walls of frail endurance. 


He wonders the ways to preserve the flow
the precious energy she traces on the air
fireworks in the radiating entrails. 


The only aim for this odd adventurer
to feed the distant beloved with such delight
so she may feel the beam of universal glee.

Fabrice Poussin writes

Her Spitting Image

Another miracle as a star rose
warm in a pearly dress
a mist emanated from her form
wrinkly from a moist cocoon. 


She looked to the gray skies
under the guise of her prison
submissive to the learned hand
counting the pulses down below. 


A cry followed a sigh in her daze
a moan and a subdued scream at last
she felt peace again though the victory
her body defeated her soul reborn. 


Through a shield of a watery vision
she caught a glimpse of a kind palm
upon her shoulder with tender reassurance
all was well in the crowded room. 


Alone in the vast amphitheater now
time ran a fast pace to the finish line
sitting with the remembrance of a former glee
she trembles with bittersweet sadness. 


Embraced to her breast her spitting image
a girl of her making a woman of satin
she smiles with those grateful touches
a subtle spark nourishes their lives.

Fabrice Poussin writes

Dreams

They might be little dreams
in their summer dresses
though winter reigns
above the tender realms. 


They come with gentle karmas
floating as if illusions
of a creation yet uncertain
speaking in angelic tongues.


Little of me will remain
but perhaps a pile of golden dust
after they pass through my path
and shock my death into a new birth.


Dancing wondrous pirouettes
hands writing upon far away worlds
carefree in vague silky cloth
they rule the universe in pure innocence. 


A heavenly scent hovers like diamond dust
distant laughter leaves soft waves upon the cosmos
their world is safe as they hold each other
in an embrace safe as eternity. 


We will remain spectators to this godly spectacle
as they are one in as many as an infinite number
if only I could hold my soul out on a platter
and let them know, I too want to join the dream.

Fabrice Poussin writes

Brain

It was a common day on the asphalt land
under neon lights, screaming rubber and
impatient humans of early years screeching. 


Night and the tears of eternal heavens upon the path
he ventured carrying great joy under his arm
his soul glowing with the anticipation of his kin. 


But he wandered into the jungle of man
surrounded by the machine of those who race
to no end chasing an existence never to be known. 


There was a blunt echo in the fibers of the universe
his heart turned to dark as the gaiety he held fell
to the soiled surface of the dark map to nowhere. 


Quiet soon returned to the theatre of his last instants
kind as he had been, he now lay in the puddle of his past
crimson of his hopes muddled with the gray of his spirit.


It had been a simple journey to another celebration
fireworks exploded all around in an explosion of death
and he dreamed far above the shattered remains of his life.

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.