Roses ran the length of her thighs. Stocking fillers disguised
as ruby hearts for the queens table. She
married above the lives of oak and flies, wooden, fragile. Promising to return to him one day before the case grew cold,
conclusions tomorrow. Nevermore did pretext go away
than when she laid with his soul for less, was there distress?
Signal flares betwixt ruins dreams and sharpened claws,
She took him in, deep. Felt his prose and bled his weakness
into those empty sheets. The shell and ghosts of Roman centurions,
copulations and daggers. But those thighs burned, dominated silence
With words to keep him begging. They burned and she opened.
Calling furious desires into little lamented shadows.
Harpooned hearts that collapsed at lusts thrusting chaos.
“Come to me”, she cried in tears of embers,
rejoicing in the warmth of blistering lovers.
She held them close and stole their dreams away. Blackened
by the need to retaliate in wakened states of haunted hopes.
The callus kiss and dry love of those too weak to remember
once they lived as kings in Eden.
The right hand paladin of angels.
Where only light felt the naked yearning between her thighs.
The concubine of godless warning mixed within the foaming ride
of all the pragmatic sons to come. And galaxies collapsed, orgasmed,
spewed matter at ten million lives per second. All to turn her whim
into something more than romance and kin. Lie, lie, lie.
She stole them all.
Opened her legs and blackholes swallowed
all the pain between desires,
untill rebirth unfurled its distaste.
“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.”*
* Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
Poem © Phen Weston 2015