Bequeath me, now, with open palms to the wind,
Your beauty of forthcoming surmising,
There is description in my voice,
To what I hold,
A breast for an infant,
As I once was,
With smallish lips like marble against a nipple of garnet,
I am weak when I bend a knee,
And hear all words rejoice like a Heavenly plea.
What am I besides a giant, made now as an insect?
Form your words like sharpest daggers,
Your own words, in contrast to my own,
There is finality here,
Made of God’s footprints in the arid sand,
Of a temperature so hot,
Alike the lust upon your crimson cheeks,
Those that blush for the view,
Of my sharpest arrow,
Held in the confines of a simple bow,
Ready to be loosed upon your barren heart.
What words must I commit,
To see candles you’ve barely lit?