All hail the wayward eve
That summersaults and vaults the inhibitions of yesteryears long ago
when passion lied in your bodice in coiled serpentine hesitation
Wanting only to be known in the biblical sense
How foolish was I all those unsung years ago and how foolish was the melancholy of the consequent years spent trying to find something that was never really there in the first place
Here's to you wayward eve may the lesson you teach
Be etched upon my skull with chalked fingernails
That I might know the maxims when my eyes have rot and turned inward.
YOU ARE READING
The Penultimate Pleasures
PoetryA collection of poems meant to embody the ongoing struggle of souls seeking shelter in modernity. (Let me know what you think:)
