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To the Prudent
September 29, 2011
Good Lady, Please.
Do not suffer me so,
With those ill-mannered lips
Which shrivel and prune
As though mine were winter,
Or the o'er bearing summer-sun.
I would not see them so-
Unflattering.
No,
I would have them fresh-
And full,
Like the kisses of long ago,
Like the kisses of a rose.
One petal for each of mine.
My lady loves me,
My lady loves me not-
For 'tis gone by, a day
When winds collided
Warm with the heat of Vulcan's furnace,
And silk could not compare to the fabric of flesh.
Ecstasy for you lady,
Is a memory best forgotten.
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