Justine Q. Bassomb
Consumed with passion,
That sweet minx of Northanger Abbey
Arrayed with gold-studded diamonds
Leaving men to tarry
Whip your thick tresses!
Call to the wind!
Peer thru your looking glass!
Vanity is sin.
I know not what power she has over me.
My mind reels with her heady scent,
My body craves the mating ritual
Of which man and woman are sent.
She is mine; til the morning
Then she must return to him, her rightful owner
She is mine til the morning
To that despised donor;
Shreds of moonbeam
Drift complacently to my corner.
Where once whispers of eternity
Lie dormant; atrophied.
Sneak to my side
Burrow within my chest
Warm me with your furs
Accompany me in self-distress
Belong, do you to another
That means little to anon
Fight I will for you
Under shrouds of darkest cover..
Previous Page Back to Poetry Next Page