Poems to a Lady in Black
I don’t believe in god,
But if god exists I’ll kiss his hands when I die,
Press my lips against the instruments of your existence
And smile to think I got the chance.
If he doesn’t, I hope I won’t regret
Wasted days wondering
If a smile sent across a room was meant for me.
I’ll worship a goddess instead,
Silken lines of wonder garbed black
As if in mourning for her lips and eyes.
For the way they’ve stripped perfection from the world
To hold all of it in supple sublimity.
I won’t waste my time
Searching for an uncaring god,
Holding your smile in mind
Is like holding sun beams in a mason jar,
And that takes too much time as it is.
The container is insufficient to capture its essence.
Memories of beauty deified won’t sit in glass,
Just as sunlight rushes busily away,
but your face stands etched in my mind
As if burnt into its fabric by volcanic fire.
Dark tresses ensnare a waking mind
That beats it’s heartbeat on a desktop
With the quick tap tapping of a pen
Worn down with beating and reluctant to start up again.
You must be divine, almost promethean, to rekindle these ashes
And I thank you for your miracles of smiles,
Idly wondering what ambrosia lies on the lips of a goddess.
Hey dark eyes,
Somehow you’ve enslaved me, to chain me, to bind me
Breathless to the foot of your four footer bed
With the mahogany cool against the flat of my back
As your riding crop slashes me to oblivion, to black
Spots spinning at the corner of my eyes,
You’ve left me breathless for hours
Didn’t cut me free for days.
You undress slowly when you return, sensually,
And I strain against my bindings, terrified.
You leave your stockings on, dark against your flesh,
And your thighs are cool against my cheek
As you make me strip them from you with my teeth.
You sit teasingly, and my hands shake in their manacles
As your legs cross behind me, secure in my binding
And you’re all black roses and lavender,
Your smell its own sort of cage.
You lie against me, your neck inches from my lips
And your hand is like iron on my throat
When I finally succumb and brush that tender surface.
Dark eyes, for black roses and lavender,
I will rip these chains free and wear them willingly.