He said she tasted like rain
Yet I can not figure
If she was a light trickle
That slid down his throat
Or if she drowned him
In a torrential downpour.
You’d never know
Just by looking at her
That she could mesmerize
With a tongue built for more
Than repetitious recitations
And lips that felled mountains
With their whispers.
Her curves are gentler
Yet his cries were anything but—
A king brought to begging
Like a wayward bard
In search of sustenance
No inn could ever provide.
She was not a harlot,
But she dripped with honeyed eyes
Like amber shades of day
Capturing deity in fealty
Like sap from a oaken tree.
Soft like her heart
She hung his majesty
From the curtains of her golden locks
Nooses too noble for petty crimes
And stole his faltering steps
Till they found her bed once more.
Moonlit Poetry 