She stood before me, a mystery, unafraid,
the perfect compliment, youth and beauty,
casually leaning, feet unbound,
loosened blouse over a simple skirt,
low-waisted, pleats of Burberry plaid,
entwined with brass, as buttons to clasp
three little boars to taunt the wolves, almost
in line with my eyes, black, of dark desires,
purple veined, from earth’s warm grip,
as I knelt before, pressing,
the damp, warm moss, “this,”
her hands explain, as almost caress,
“is the verse you wished you could write,
the innocence you yearn to enslave,
but age can never possess,”
she knew, beyond her years,
the base and coarse of all others, decrepit
looking away, leaving her watching me,
alone, wishing to fulfil
her basic need, education
“I offer nothing but everything, knowledge
unbound, wealth beyond dreams, and to tell
the secrets of the dead,” there were none
but whispered this, my only line,
though plain a plan was enough,
her confidence cocked, unbuttoned curiosity,
she took my hand, bit the soft flesh and seeds within,
the air sweet, still, the scent of her rose,
tracing lines of her curves, deep, from carnal
to the cavernous caves beneath the crust,
scorpion lairs, lilies of death, and
the gates to what lies below
the nymph now mine,
to grace the graves of mortal men
fire in their groins, now sated
they turn, face down again,
to sleep some more, and I
must hunt new game.
Paul Horne 