A Sonnet of Aged Desire
I would lie bare before thine eyes so bright,
Bathed full in Phoebus’ unforgiving beam,
That thou might’st mark how Time hath wrought his blight:
Creased flesh, wan’d sinew, spots where youth did gleam.
Yet under this decaying mortal shell,
A fire burns, untamed by age or years—
Desire, unshaken, where it erst did dwell,
Still swells with pulse and pangs, with lust and tears.
Behold it rise—yon staff of longing bold!
It throbs, it aches, it calls thee to its quest.
O, touch it now, with hands both firm and cold,
And let it find its solace in thy breast.
Come mount its might, or bend with bated breath,
Taste that which lives ‘twixt love and lecher’s death.
—
A Wicked Whisper, Aside
Methinks thy bosom stirs, thy garden dews;
Thy nipples rise, betraying thy delight.
Come hence, and let me strip thee of thy hues,
And feast upon thy core with mortal might.
O say the words that drive this beast to flame:
“I love his rod, his orbs, and him the same!”
Now thrust thee back, and cry with labored breath:
“More, old man—love me hard unto our death!”
Someone is feeling frisky..
Always