The type of woman you walk away from backwards.
Is it deceit of joking straight razors,
that disallow the credit of back turned.
Can it be fear, or more. Evermore.
When the apple of your eye is objectified,
and heavy beneath weight of jackboots.
On svelte necks, curled spines. Stomped,
into tombs of sealed off lives.
No, fear is for quarrels as she escapes,
into arms of lovelier thoughts; sour grapes.
For her the callouses of hand are rougher hewn,
from dawnbreak for dusk's sake, a softer sigh.
And when the parting of porcelain, as quiver thigh
entices marble into franchise.
Is this the movement they call a swoon?
If backwards is as turned as steps deplete in Doppler fashion.
Eyes heavied in beckoned hitherto; bosom's flaming passion.
When gaze is male and heavier still, and all the wheat sifted from chaff at the mill.
Thank God for the ideas not shown on our face. He forbid their existence in this place.
But all work and no play, and with her expression mirroring decay,
How can a man ignore such a display?
When forced to walk backwards; fear no reply. Knocked on doors and then waved goodbye.
In summer repose, and autumnal comportment.
Let us say grace, fingers entangled.
Then dine on our crumbled simnel in anger.
As anger eats away at us.
Let us think of the coming dusk.
We shall lie still and awake, expectations nary.
The passions ripped from our chests as they carry,
into the air to smother, we deserve;
lost in the seminal, seasonal fervor.
"I am lost to you, my love.", I said to her.
"But I am only a muse, and your oeuvre,
contains many of us, collected as dust."
Her words struck a chord, and a melody rang.
The sun broke the horizon, and black birds sang.
I could hear church bell's chiming the timing of Prime,
"But," and hesitated I did, as I looked in her eyes, "I'm,
nothing without the inspiration you have delivered me."
Her next words will haunt me heavily, she whispered, "So be."
About how I view women in my life, at times