She Was a Good Mote
A good mote,
something to imagine upon
with sin in mind.
Near strangers in the same office,
clothed only by levels and walls.
From two floors up
she let her dark hair down.
Hour after hour
he running fingers through strands,
twisting ropes of sensuality.
A married mote,
a thought made flesh
that grew too large for eyes.
A bad mote,
a succubus in the den of being,
a succulence of dark desires.
Time-worn, and weary it waned,
it cooled
leaving only residuals,
flavors good and bad.
A clearer youth
un-imagined her utterly out,
deleted that mote,
gone and forgot forever,
until now.
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