you cannot cut me
with that blunt object
nestled between your thighs
anymore
I found the antidote
to your magic my dear
your hold my dear
is slipping my dear
but oh
those fine hairs in your neck
can still prick me to death
as I reel from the flecks in your iris
and the arch of your heel
(60 Words)
| 
Print this poem
Show the next latest work
