Tuesday, 20 November 2012

South Kensington

You whose beauty pierces.
Whose glances spark with irritable purpose,
And thoughts, sword shards that jar
Under a skin of night red roses.

You who wears the hide of a wolf.
Whose looks access a lover's cowardice,
Who swallows her intelligences,
Issues her sex in warring confidence.

You whose eyes catch a stolen hope
Between the pincers of your perceptions,
Who freezes with green dilated ice,
The insolence of my trespasses.

No comments:

Post a Comment