Smoulder

I wish to dance,

With frolic motion,

To lie supine,

Gazing,

At your iridescent

Mirrors; furtively,

Of teal emotion,

Hiding behind

Reek of whiskey,

And many a cigar,

Vanilla-scented,

Many a tome,

And words, and phrases,

Embellished, finely attuned

To your enchantment.

Oh, how does my heart

Yearn for abasement,

Divine consortium,

Chafing on whetstone,

For soft canopies

Of velvet,

And the underpass

Of Shame!

A barefaced lie,

The juries ought say,

But a magic one,

Indeed.

Actuates the deepest

Senses,

Makes a fight,

In hours of need.

One does not take note

Of others,

Granulous as

Common sand,

For what purpose

Serves the oyster

When the pearl is in thine hand?

And to what avail

The bonfires,

Burning slow with petty smoulder,

When the flame of gilded hairlocks

Poureth deeply

From your shoulders?