That night,
When the horses whined.
That night,
When the sea frothed white.
That night,
When the wind was slight.
That night,
When the passion was just right.
When crazed with wine
And awed by our desire's might,
And not even my guilty plight,
Tore the pleasure from my mind.
On our bodies we dined,
Till bells of midnight chimed.
The knots were not tied,
Cuz we were ridden with pride.
And revealed were our blights,
Yet we tried.

An ink and a blot
A paper and its creases
A bored poet at loss
The lone shadow of the candle flame,
Hides the rest of the world from light
An alley cat's stealth walk
Creeps past the window of the poet
He stretches, cranes his neck
There, a maiden trod in the night
Under the canopy shadows of still trees
The wind was queer tonight
The moon seemed bashful too
He reaches out to call
But she turns to look at him
And like a dying wisp of a candle,
She's gone.
Dumbstruck, he sits,
He smoothens out the creases
He ignores the blot
He writes a poem
Of the maiden in the shadows.

A forbidden haunt but tempting.
***** with such rare grandeur.
Its dwelling- a cushion of serenity,
Crumbling all skepticism.
Fun, love and hope lit its foyer.

Romance and tenderness- its bedroom.
Spring shone through its windows.
One winter night came the storm.
The thunders struck!
The weather laid siege!

Until its foundations rattled!
Ceaseless attacks abounded!
All hopes fled!
Sadness flooded its gates!
Defiance was the order of its day!

Doubt ruled!
And soon the house will all be nothing but worthless rubbles,
Rubbles that was dreaded but all the same inevitable.

There's a fae
Who lives in a fern.
Her wings so little,
Her feet so kittle.

She was a tease,
But certainly not the least.
She flits through the grass,
With a skimpy dress of brass.

She hides in the shrub,
And offers a defiant shrug.
Her whistles beckons to the birds,
Even the goblins dare leave their beds.

Her step on petals are of light springs,
Even with hair tied in ribbon strings.
Mischievous little thing she was
Other wary faes ought to pause.

So carefree she treads,
Even mama could not knot her in a thread.
Most often, mama warns and shoos
Always, she'd never heed but coos.

One moon-ful night,
When she forgot her plight,
Into the sky, unwarily she soars,
And ends up torn in the bellies of owls.

With all her strenght did she beat
But the night birds had had their bits!
A mournful dirge for a fae no bigger than a wasp,
But who ends up dying with a gasp!