Dust of my black wingsYou touched me firstly in the sunlight
I touched you secondly in the moonlit-night
Thirdly you touched me on red velvet velour
It was then I lost count, and sang, amour!
Like a moth passionately, driven, mad...
She blew the dust of my black wings...
My heart and soul danced, pattern-plaid
In the weft of her pale limbs fittings
I was her sun burning pleasure
As did moonlight, become, her.
Poetry by M Heathcote
Read 564 times
Written on 2012-12-19 at 03:35
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email