A Reading: To the Night be Woed скачать в хорошем качестве

A Reading: To the Night be Woed

To the Night be Woed (Poetry Prompt.) By P. Francis Be a blooming sunrise and aromatic rose, not a tessarae statue of clay, or ever solemn prose. For your smile I boast most, my dear, so morose, of such near darkened flow, I harken a sweet memory of fear. Long-laid tendrils of tears wrap and sap so sad of soul, as madness of your cold caress unfolds. Time waits for nought, my sought amethyst cocotte, mere beaconed breath wrought within a sequined mist, besot. In the dead of deceived night, jewel thieves duel foolhardy ghouls by lardy-fueled candlelight. Where an inkwell's dormant portal stills, a dry quill of discontent mills Hell's vermillion rills of torment. And the echoes fade the waded shade underneath, no lovely abade nor shallow grave bequeathed in the hallowed heath. I resist her primmest, whist silhouette in a viscous temptress's tempest, lusting to kiss her plumpest, most-pertest breast. She reached out for my frozen hand, fingertips of embers cozen and spanned, fiery hair sifting away like wiry sand. I shan't be the dower servant to her avant-garde levant, pursed, flowered lips parched and busts arched of want. Then, in the stillest of blackened den, the inviting womb purse and requiting, pined curse blended into the sorrowed dusk's end. Glows creep in through the trees' fruited troves, as a lone sparrow crows in the farrowed groves of amber rose. "My love," I din, "it is you again, a bird-of-prey daemon; the night of tamarind and unquenched sin." Such flowing wings as if an angel sings, and the sun far above stole my one true love I carol of... "Let me beseech you seat on my creased lapel, my liege, my love- mon amour, mademoiselle -and minuit paramour dove."