In my bedroom
Your Perfume
Mingles with the dust
Of books.
Your scent lingers
On fingers.
But all I’ve touched
Will be dust.
In my bedroom
Your Perfume
Mingles with the dust
Of books.
Your scent lingers
On fingers.
But all I’ve touched
Will be dust.
Stilettos stir up dust.
Whilst men choose
To lose
Themselves in lust.
And girl’s new shoes
Tread dust.
As the weather grows
Hot, pretty women in short clothes
Will cause
Men to pause
And their eyes to almost pop
Out of their heads, and wish
That they could catch
That particular fish,
For they have an itch
To scratch.
And perhaps a match
May spark
Ingendering love or lust
In the human heart,
Ere the dust
Takes away
Our sunny day.
I drink
My wine and think
On bed,
Fertile wombs,
And tombs,
Where sleep the dead