Not By Naught

Even as chastity lifts her skirt and
Holds the length of her thigh against my waist
I am at loss,

How can I say it:
I cannot claim the leg
I cannot claim the heart,

These words do not belong to me
While my mouth is still a macron over (woah)
Her smile, too close, osculable and warm
And leaning into mine, but there it goes;

She returns to her hollow of light
I clamber into my burrow of dark

So even as I tilt towards bedlam
For the length of a season with a tin cup
In my hand, a crutch, arriving at the end of
The world alone, slouched and gray
And wordless

Her breath mizzles just a breath away
And my mouth a macron over woe.




Poetry by Charlie fan
Read 706 times
Written on 2009-03-30 at 07:41

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