The Sculptor

On Sunset Strip the lights have dimmed
And silent now their siren’s call.
A fading starlet’s eyes are brimmed
With tears–one more forgotten thrall
Who keeps her locks of platinum trimmed,
Awaits her call to glory,
Lays bare her soul to cheat decay
And rewrite her life’s story.
He sculpts her in immortal clay,
In meadows cold and hoary;
Holds time’s determined march at bay
From fields of faded glory.

Ryan Stone

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Lunch Line Metaphysics

He accepts the coffee and smiles
his best I’m more than I seem smile
at ‘You’re Being Served By Eve’

who stares right past him, or maybe
right through him, at the queue
percolating out the door.

He’s loved her each lunch break,
in a year full of lunch breaks,
from his nobody place in line–

one more grey suit
in a nondescript forest

where he knows should he fall,
he will not make a sound.

Ryan Stone

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Artemis Lost

She comes in through my window, dripping
ambrosia and moonlight. I’m feigning sleep,
she draws me out with jasmine scented
kisses. She slips from innocence,
denim and satin, to writhe
down my spine as a shiver.
Promises born in salt and fire
roll with the swell of her breast,
die with the plea turned to ash
on my tongue, with the band
returned to her finger.
Nocking an arrow she raises,
releases; how deeply
her false overture pierces,
I never will,
never will
tell.

Ryan Stone

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