You are annoyed, tired of advances,
You work the spirit strong and ardour to belong.
Could you have expected the melt?
As I break into two like a snapped wooden branch.
The roses they look so pale,
They turn their faces around,
The scented allure of a thousand lonely nights.
Hearing thorny footfall underground.
Your lips they tell no lies,
They are so moist and sweet.
Your tongue darts and glides, far above the hills,
The wind whistles silently to the devil.
His coachman parks, kicks the earth from the wheel,
And tells us that he strikes the deal.
Your toes they curl and your feet they twitch,
As he looks down at your heels.
Then the hammer falls and the sparks they fly.
And I ooze into a puddle of boiling foam,
Fragmented from the impact of a heated,
Lusty thought and a cruel trick of the light.
© Sean P. Ransom.