By
G. M. Brodhurst-Davis
She
sat, eyes blazing
her
limbs’ embers awakening
awaiting
her matador
Impossible
passion
a
bubbling volcano
lancing
through her door
Her
thoughts blistering
trumpet
inflaming
blood
moon turns to the Moor
Her
matador gleaming
in
gold-trimmed vermillion
his
modus operandi, an art
Eyes
focused on triumph
cape
rising, taunts piercing
the
beast, on red plate…flailing
The
hot crowd’s approbation
signals
her aspiration
Yes!
My Maestro is borne!
Written for Every Day Poems/T.S. Poetry's "Red" theme; Featured at:
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