a staid figure waits:who shall pass
the confines of this-
a place where only
hollow promises engage
the lustful hours
passed in satin
on alabaster skin-
one who dreams of
worlds beyond these
gilded columns
left to wonder patiently
time passes without notice
to those without desire
1 comments:
A wonderful poem in alabaster tones! The truth of the matter is often cold and hard - but the imagination allows the lies to warm the thoughts.
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