Rolling Stone Revisited
Aura Thundera
deonii@yahoo.com

He came to them, wants a way
To escape a gilded world
Slowly, he agrees, to speak
A truth too often silenced.
And agrees to bare himself
Body and soul, to our eyes.
Slowly, bending down
To change a lens on a camera
He slips out of his clothing
Leaving his shirt and jeans
In a soft heap of cloth.
Nude now, he lies down
On the long green grass.
Long blades of grass caress
Up and down his lean thighs
Dark hazel eyes flick over her
And his hips wiggle a bit
Daring her, teasing her
How low dared they picture him?
Lower, lower, crept the viewfinder
Over his tender, scarred belly,
To catch the edge of dark curls.
That matched the glossy waves
Brushing his bared shoulders.
He poses again, leaning on a wall,
Still disrobed and beautiful
Dark wings of hair beneath his arms
Rendered by silver in pure black.
His eyes are wide and dark
Shining with the innocence
He lost so long ago, in pain,
Or so at least, it seems to him.
The shutter clicks, the face is gone.
He poses again, smirking,
In his bathtub, covered by foam.
He stands, hands on hips,
A challenge in his eyes.
Burning, burning blackness
Rendered on her film.
From the supernovae fires
Burning in those hazel eyes.
He leaves a trail of stardust
From those endless fires
Stoked to incredible fury
By his producers and directors.
The soul within shows rainbow,
Fragile as crystal, and dazzling.
And deeply assaulted, near dying,
Burned alive by the Furies
The girls they hear shrieking
They continue, unshaken
Recording the leashed power,
The rocker that might be,
The soul that yearns to soar,
Breaking the chains of his life.
And aching to release his own song.
Sing in the true voice given him,
Dazzling, unfiltered and strong
Riding the crest of a dawn
That breaks in cruelty,
Shattering a thousand dreams
Born in the rusty lamplight glow,
Of his masked, harnessed power.


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