Friday, November 2, 2007
Woman is the everlasting encumbrance
Of time, a garden, and a coiled serpent.
Insatiable in her want of warm rocks
Long conversations while listening more
Of exuberance versus stillness of thought
And seemliness of the soul
But still within her longings
Linger memories of serpentine-thoughts
Manipulation of destiny
That link to a garden and a tree.
Fangs hidden by sensuous moist lips
Crush fresh fruits from the garden
And draw sweetness where they can
It is a needful thing
And only then is she sated.
With the setting of the sun…