Their bodies spun and intertwined
with promises of who’d be thine,
and tongue and teeth met with bared breast
and the rest, they say, is the rest.
A decade later only shows
two fires which have burned too low
and people who are fumbling
with what was once a second skin.
And in their dire desperation,
they seek solace in confrontation,
and all the pain helps them forget
their bitterness and their regret.
But waiting for them in the dark
is tinder desperate for a spark.
My arm under yours,
my hand dares under your dress,
my fingers, they sin.
A moon in the night,
a song of the stars
that whispers, “Come what might
you know just who you are.”
The blushing new bride
dances in her pure white dress
with sinful red lips.
She licks her red lips
while her hands move, unbidden,
to pull him closer.
The old king was a tyrant
who played the game of war
and those who weren’t compliant
he would show what for.
The queen played games as well
not war, but of the heart
which, at a glance, seemed less fell
but were plagued by false starts.
The jester played the crowd
with pomp and pageantry
and told his stories proud and loud
with playful pandemony.
But when the lights went out, instead
the jester played games in the royal bed.
Her colour is red,
a rose with no need for thorns,
she blushes with joy.
She addresses the crowd,
not from behind a porcelain mask
locked in an eternal smile,
but with a weathered face,
hard and scarred by the world.
Her smile is her own.
Summertime romance –
a flirt, fling, or anything
hot under the sun.
Storms try to shake me
but though I seem made of wood,
my frame is iron.
A (wise) man of two faces 