‘Ore the feverish dunes of Rothmana breaks day,
as the mesmeric, gold-dusted shimmer and sway
of the generous peaks of the land
Echoes she whom I’ve sought so, from lands far away
With devotion that burns like the sand
To her temple I trek, the fates guiding my feet,
The wagon I pull bearing gold, wine, and meat
Till the hills, sweetly splayed, show her sanctum to me
a retiring cave i’ve been waiting to greet
and its mouth, at long last, receives me
Threshing sand from my garb, I begin preparations
Lighting candles, strewing gold, mulling lewd machinations
Pressing herbs to the skin I so need to refresh
Then reclined on the sand, I lay bare my intentions
With a ponderous tribute of flesh
From an olive skinned figure, shy sand lizards clamber.
Obsidian shards housed in bright eyes molten amber
Scan her cave and trespasser within.
Those eyes terrify, yet all that I am
Burns with a fire the sight lights in my skin
Rage at first, a ghastly hiss
My life at stake should Cupid miss
yet my stony conviction does not falter,
This minstrel’s fingers at your service,
Lips to worship at your altar
Now melting, swooning, serpentine,
The touch of your skin like the sweet spell of wine
As your emerald bustle and train
Meet a throbbing, hungry serpent of mine
That parts your hot seamline in twain
The graze of your fangs, the breath from your lips
The touch of your sweltering, satiny whip
Lashing and lapping and torturing me,
Helplessly bound in your titanite grip
On the cusp of pain and ecstasy
As your willowy throat goes drifting lower
With skills to call a cyclone slower,
I think to myself as my eyes start to roll
What marvels those lips that I worship so were
As they’re making to swallow me whole
Now, the beast within you shaking,
the ground beneath us quaking
a rapturous dance, our senses boiling,
lost in feeling, writhing, roiling.
A final surge, our limbs encoiling…
“Oh!” the toiling low roar rolls, until
Though bosoms heave, our forms lie still
So slick with dewy sin - divine
till wrangling my limbs at last to my will
I pour from our bottle of wine
And those ***** spirits sipping
Send your eyes to slumber slipping.
I rise to go, “Goodbye,” and then,
You catch my hand, and tightly gripping
Say, “Please, won’t you do that again?”
The subject of this poem is called a Lamia.
