- Erotic Poetry
- bride of frankenpoetry
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Mary shelley
Sits by fireside
Sherry in hand
Her eyes reading
Every word between
Shelley and Byron
She has fitted to her face
Something what must be smile
Two ends of a bookcase
Passion on one hand
Devotion on the other
The perfect man
Lies somewhere
In between
So many extremes
If only she could
Take her favorite parts of each
And sew them together
That’s not adultery is it?
Asks a mischievous curious wife.
A good question
Why is there no perfection?
We always have
To make do
Aching architects
Of our own imperfect lives
Tirelessly working fingers
If you want something done right
Only we have our own answers
Are these the thoughts
Mary has on her mind
Warmed by fire and wine
Her white cotton dress is dry
But as she works
Yet another masterpiece
Between her fingers
Her panties are wet
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