- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Death is a Lady
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There, stands my woman.
Her name given is fate.
But her intimates croon to her as destiny.
Whatever is my correlation?
To this star-eyes wanton beauty?
There, stands my woman.
Is she even mine?
Even as her hand rests
On that other man’s shoulder,
She casts her eyes at me
With a melting liquid fire glance
With lips part and she laughs.
Harsh, the sound of breaking glass,
As it travels past her lips.
Sticky shards of her voice tangle in my hair
There stands my woman.
Suddenly quiet, abruptly subdued
Sweet and gentle, and loyal to me.
There stands my woman.
Quicksilver and fierce.
Denouncing me and pillaging me
Of my very last breath.
The mesmerized call her destiny
Those who know her, call her death
- COMMENTS
LeBrozover 16 years agoThis poem was mentioned in the Archival Review thread, in a picking through Lit's archive of over 37,000 poems.
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