I
ventured for love, a naïve novice, barely fifteen. She
appeared,
a grown vixen, a fox for words. I fawned
and
caved and craved a minx. She spoke of France,
and
men of love, egging my ego. I knew of grit, and
sweet
caress, praising beauty. It’s such for shallow, but
I
was young, where gates crumble. We loved for privy,
a
torn rebuke, to rent a cabin. I lie; and ever true; to
speak
to fantasy. We lived it, a mental world, to
venture
few; but love is grand, a sworn reply, to meet a
sylph.
Oh to dance, and chide a bit, soiling silken sheets.
I
laugh to ponder, a teenage tear, facing a young maiden;
and
what for love, and music smiles, to court an older
woman.
It was dream, a main event, for much retreat.
The
days were short, and nights were gray, sketching
oval
eyes; and now to crave, a gift of waves, sorting
through
a haze. I love her more, to know for woes, and
sculpt
a fane; and once again, to jot for prose, to touch
for
a bit of beauty.
