Blooded; Honeyed Blossoms

Fragrant Jasmine,
The honey of your hair,
A South African flower,
Red, Gold, Violet, White
Drops of sweetness,
Drawn into from breath,
Petals of Spring,
The blossoms of Nice.

I was lead by you,
or perhaps,
Have I lead you?
But it was I who,
Followed behind-
To offer prose and praise,
Glorious ballads to and all,
for a curious, endangered thing to stay,

I was lead by you
following those clapping-clopping steps
of loose red boots,
Tripping on cobbled stone;
Dark and moist,
How lively is the concrete!

I travelled along,
Staggering, stunned,
Like a piteous wounded thing that smiles,
The coup de grace was,
That turn of your head,
To cast eyes flashing with,
Golden, voluminous, length of browns,
Falling to the side as rain swept by wind,
to expose the precious nape of your neck,

Like arrows with wicked steel tips,
Towards one so beguiled and wounded-
Now pierced to death,
As a wild boar pursued,
Foolishly did charge into musket fire.

Blood issuing forth from wounds of passion,
I took your hand and you clasped onto mine,
One strong flame,
To kindle many candles,
Snuffed suddenly by one strong gust.

The play of your hips,
The narrowness of your waist,
The taper of your olived shoulders,
How could I not,
Trip and stumble,
Lust and desire;
To follow those blooded-boots,
That burned along winding rue.

Don’t tell me to leave,
Don’t tell me to ‘git,
To plead with my eyes like a dog to be shot,
so I bared my teeth,

“I’ve slept on rail road tracks warmer than,
your arms-”

Then drown me,
Pointing towards the door,
Cruel siren that sings on yonder rocks,
That leads brave sailors away,
His mates ashore,
to curse and spit at the rawness of beauty,

Those blooded boots.

There goes the last piece of my heart,
That was worn on a sleeve,
Carried away,
Quelled and subdued;
The last warmth of a fiery thing,
Farewell lady,



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