Foudroyant
To discover a small love, that's oscillating
Like her prismatic mottled body briskly consolidating
Twisting around the hopeless serpentine ivy
In a bed of our own wanderlust and negative reality
Desire promptly converts to favourable vernations
Enough to fulfill the automagical promise of her lack of clothes
Here I, inside the windowsill sitting in the silence I loathe
Her *******, the curtain partly drawn, has thrown a deep shadow