Tom dinning
Registrant*
The Muses call.
The last of light is craved upon to fall
The shapely, longing limbs stretch to the tall
Smoothed skin as oil upon the water waits
My heart beats, sheds blood and lust: anticipates
I hear her call, her song is as the Loralie
Her vision sees thus far, sees much more than I
Beyond the spreading of her naked limbs
She becons men, and women, where fall begins
There is no pretence, no guilt or play
This is the place where she will lay
Command her wanting lust against the wind
And watch the lonely man fall into sin
The Muse is to dictate, not to be praised
Young men fall short within the loving haze
She is a whore, a tart, a lusting stone
And better men have risked, then left alone
Don’t give the muse a thought, her beauty tempts
None of us will last; remain exempt
She wants nothing from us but the tortured soul
Then disposes of the corpse upon the cold.
_DSF6834 by tom DINNING, on Flickr
Untitled1 by tom DINNING, on Flickr
_DSF6813 by tom DINNING, on Flickr
Untitled1 by tom DINNING, on Flickr
_DSF6813 by tom DINNING, on Flickr