i.

Grooving cricket's
Mardi gras the copse;
A bedchamber shut
The door's art locked.

ii.

The luster of the moon
Sparkle's her face;
Locking I tightly with her finger's
Her body with mine in place.

iii.

Wall's bodacious, to match her flavor
Raiment she weareth, I sketch on poetry paper;
Though I'm no artist, only a writer
Her look's art an eyeful, I've become her virtuoso, her guider.

iv.

As tis, she's mine muse
Thrice I hadst held her;
She's mine only residence
I seeketh none other shelter.

v.

I shalt die in her arm's
And awake in her psyche;
Because tis I do knoweth
She's where everything's right.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane nagley dedication