White Sunday 216: she comes...

she comes with the night
(dark corners playing metaphor
for those parts of her life she still shades
from my deepest scryings)
(walking on bare feet
unaccustomed to the rough stone
but treading so lightly)
(naked but for her dreams
that I would be a part of if she
would only come in the light)
(lover. friend. peer. I pretend
not to notice she hides the wreathes
behind her back, uncertain of me)
she comes with the night
(still weighing the virtues
that I present and represent,
the good man chasing the evil done)
(her hands are soft and warm.
her kisses are like raspberries in the sun.
her legs, toned and bold, gold to my base metal)
(her eyes burn me, turn me to stone
the better to enter her, what she allows,
more than skin, despite her words and wishes)
she comes with the night
(the chalice of my questing,
the legend I have spent a lifetime seeking,
just beyond my reach and beseeching words)
(invited savagery, she begs me
to consume her that I might exhume her
battered, bartered heart and desires)
(I am hers and in time, I hope,
she will be mine, claimed and proclaimed
by her lips and hips and the tips of her fingers)
she comes with the night


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.