Wither

Does she move around on golden slippers?
Filigree patterns cast about the cobbles as she walks?
Is her hair sunrise ? Her eyes the chocolate we used to share ?
Do her fingers weave coloured threads for your bed
So that her skin touches only delicate cloth when you lay her down.
She must have silk for skin
And breasts made of pure ivory
Her lips must taste like fire
Her flesh the very amber you put on my ring.
She must be angel and devil’s breath
Cast in a mold of the purest gold.
Always young, never old
Pure of thoughts but also bold.
Why else have you left me Sir?
Why else do you dither?
She doth bloom while I must wither.
(C)Slumpless

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