PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Open the teakwood box, and

unfold the cloth that is wrapped

around a pair of sheer stockings;

perfectly translucent, except at the

softly opaque weave at the heels and toes---

preventative against snags and runs.

Gold silk, they are---the color sort of

matches your waistlength cascade of curls.

Draw them onto your clean-shaven legs:  the

Poet rescued you from the street life (if it

can be called life) and the brawney, burley

men who exploited you---who sodomized you---

because you asked for a crust of stale bread,

because you sought a sip of sour wine.  The

Poet said such beautiful a boy should not be

wasted on, or lost, to the dirty streets of the

slums of Alexandria, or the crude

bums of Alexandrian lust who do not mind to

hurt a lovely, delicate blossom.  To that end, the

Poet has brought you to this luxurious suite, and

bestowed upon you admission to the Library; where

you, seeming to be a Muse, yourself, might

read the love poems inspired by such Muses.  The

Poet assured you that you owe no obligation to him,

he who deems himself too ugly to approach the

presence of your beauty. You have invited him

to visit.  As he opens the door, he sees the nuance of

those stockings upon your perfect nakedness;

silk stockings vivified by your vital nakedness, and the

desire that quickens your pulse, which he can

see expressed in your obvious arousal.  He had said

you are not obliged, but the Love in your soul insists that

you are.  You will bring the confirmation of this to completeness

through the surge, and release to him, of your innate sweetness.
Outside your window, not too distant, the great Lighthouse

thrums with the light that signals ships that seek a safe berth.

Starward

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