In this life, Henry, dethroned,
must struggle with his highless-ness,
the loss of velvety robes
in ruby red and royal blue,
and the stockings that hugged his muscly legs.
Now, Henry is a wounded eagle,
worn out enough that he covers
all of the mirrors in his rooms.
Devout Catherine sits on a plush sofa--
smug--sipping scotch.
She allows herself this night
and revels being on top.
Tonight, she feels like the leopard
that changes her spots, a woman in control,
and one who knows how to like it.
-SRM, 2013 ©
I've been writing this poem for at least three months, and there's still something missing in it. One of my friends suggested two things: write many more stanzas, and/or write alternating stanzas from Catherine and Henry's positions. I'm interested to see where it goes!
Tell us: What works for you when revising your art?
-SM