Inner Poet

My inner poet is French.
Tipped beret and Mona Lisa smile. Her voice rings out with playful laughter, her arms wide open, leaping into darkness and light. She is beautiful and earnest. Seductive and serious.
She was born on the wings of angels and birthed out of pain and suffering.
I recognize her in the first morning light by the gentle shores of the sea. She is bathed in God’s fragrance and surrounded by belief.

What does this inner poet know for sure?
She is light. She is dark. Complete and unfinished. A creature of God. A glorious paradox.
This poet lives hidden from sight. Covered in blue scarves and white. Peeking through the window and knocking on the door. She lives at home inviting others to come and sit by her fire.

Her imagination is infinite. She dreams of knowing and being known, of embracing and being embraced. She desires community, fellowship, peace and solitude.
She must speak of everything. The resonant and the dissonant. The beauty and the depravity. The joy and the sorrow. The fullness of life and the darkness of death.

She sits on the sidewalks of Life, holding a thin cigarette and dreaming her dreams.
Her voice speaks in a beautiful accent. Tipped beret and all-knowing smile.
My inner poet is a romantic. She is French.

photo: mona lisa by italian (not french) painter, leonardo da vinci