Sir Knight

An invitation from between
his nocturnal sheets, beacons
her into his rhythmic haven
dissolving hours of mundane...

Passively she watches as
he unlaces her Stevie Nicks gypsy boots,
unbuttons her bedraggled bodice,
and emancipates her bound mane,
once defiled by plebeian dust,
and wraps scented palms
around luscious soft angles
of her of abundant lust.

As her servant he indulges
her drained body,
swathing its musky odor
with a butterfly tongue,
liberating her from loveless grime
beyond requisite portals
of images sublime,
and riding high, she's
his gypsy queen one more time...