I have learned to wield the morning.
Rise in the razors light and her ambient glow
Champion of the spinal stretch
and the sensuous yield of the Muse below.

The past moments and the aches and the arches
left behind like the bramble bush of broken dreams
Now the chastity of yesterday's youth is laid to waste
and the dominance of her screams and thy pagan tastes.

My ***** stir for breakfast.
The Muse of the morning awakens
and sates the demons bathed in sin

Leaving but the residues
of her bitter sweet fruits upon my beard
to later grace the air
and the wafting breeze
that only other passing women
can sense,
and then rejoice within.