Eros keeps using me for target practice
thanks to my muse, even when he never
strikes wrong, each arrow blazing hitting
both the feverish mind and the aching loin,
unfailing master of his art of beautiful pain.
The winged boy and his lusty mother should
by now have had enough of my tribulations
of desire and launch those serrated bolts
on other minds and other flesh, yet the swift
shafts keep coming, leaving me in anguished
dreaming, raw visions begetting poem
for each deeply buried arrow.
22.-29.07.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
Ei kommentteja:
Lähetä kommentti