I could be some relief
To Fantasy in chief
Commanding ships spur
And all who sail in her
I could twist and dismiss and insist
I could enlist opposition to resist what now exists
But I could not try
And inspire any real reaped desire
Only brusque verse or something wrier
I could not slink and hint and smoulder
I now think what I would evince is far colder
No feminine wiles
Just the end of the smiles
And the bell  of reality's child
Sounding loud to astound a man
Resiled from the myth of desires plans
Would a reflection of your own ***** affections
Of lip curled, showing familiar perfection
Of a tone deep, making lone directions
Be to Fantasy's fan planned infection?
Or does the candle light these perceived shames,
Setting the secret world of 'wanting' aflame?