“Your amiability is sworn,” said the puling temptress,
And I had forgotten, the meaning of death.
I pulled a message, from her hand,
And read it, forthwith,
It read so neatly, in my hand,
Words of long-etched, verse,
Bleeding, with a hue, akin, to the ink color.
“Next to nothing, that you are,
A devilish crude vessel, of a man,
Made for simple wrath, and never for sanctimony,
A man of many faces, and never a smile.”
I tossed the message, aside,
And sought, for the openness,
Of a window,
And a pair, of white steeples,
Paired, as lascivious legs,
Dropping, from a woman’s groin.
She saw, with eyes so eager,
The eagerness, withdrawn, from mine pair,
Mine pair, of blues, to her irises, of green,
We had met, like ocean, to forestry,
A message of want, to my withered hopes,
In how I knew, not what life, represented.
Here I came to war, upon her flesh,
Her, open flesh,
Pinks and purples, clashing, as one,
Sick by disdain, with drops, of lust,
A harlot’s youth, bespoke, with her grin,
A word to my eyes, drowned not, by Neptune,
But, by Bacchus,
For wine stunk, upon her cherry lips.
“You are as this world, my land, my place.
A woman as me, so forgotten, and shamed,
Held down, to lost hopes, and travails,
You are needed, elsewhere,
Kept from youth, to be among, the strays.”
And I melted upon her!
I melted, to say that the world, of her’s, was lost,
Because, I met a woman, proud and empty,
Loathing, was her tempt,
And that disdain, was her salvation.