'A poem is never finished, merely abandoned.'
Each one so precious: a sonnet
When with the dawn she slides into my bed,
The dress of dreamless darkness slips away.
Her teasing fingers flutter on my head.
Her whispers draw me up and into day.
Laughing, the throbbing sun has reached his height,
Spreading himself across the sweating land,
Thrusting aside the clouds with shafts of light.
The world is his to own, his to command.
But soon the evening sky is bleeding redly,
The day despairs, declines and slowly dies,
The melancholy moon is hanging sadly,
Betrayed by love and laughter, lust and lies.
Each woman, each so precious, always leaves.
So let it be. I am too proud to grieve.
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