The marks of a woman in essential oil, love,
attest to her presence in a new wonderland
but gone is her essence, her being, her name,
washed into life she sinks, disappears.
Bubbles rise forth as she battles to breathe,
a frog she could be or an undersea ghoul,
rising and falling, her heart, body, all,
in reality drowns, she’s a memory gone sour.
Love floats her right in, hate takes her right out,
she’s bobbing about unanchored no doubt,
but high on a dream she’s a terrible queen
of hidden reserves and untrained discipline.
She goes with the flow like an old shabby clock
ready to stop any minute, day, year,
or maybe a broom sweeping dust from the floor
ready to can it or throw it out on the wind.
And then there is life riding high on a wave
pushing her forward into arms of her death.
A rock in her path and she’s batted and bruised
but would you believe she’s nobody’s fool?
When she is dry she might start over again,
be a woman well versed in the essence of wine,
and then she can drown in full-bodied red
or trip through daisies of pure sparkling white.
Still there are bubbles, she’s alive, she survived.
Her mark? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s grown old,
merged into bubbles from half drunk champagne
or somewhere in oil frying potatoes and meat.
Such is the story, tale, exposé,
of a woman in oil, essential oil, love!