Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Poetry Year August 16th

You spat on me and called me a whore,
a bitch for the love money abhored.
But your glances fell hot upon my face,
my face that is your sun and eager dusk.
My race that is rising wrapped around your prominence.

You surrendered that other essence to me,
that heart of what once named a seed,
until once proud you bent like winded reed.
That's all you were, another moment or three.

You buried your face in my musk,
you tortured your conscience in place,
you surrendered to unholy decadence,
Within your face the cravings warred.

You tell me this is what I am for,
only this, and nothing more.

No comments:

Post a Comment