Published September 18, 2006
Here whisks the butterfly named virgin,
windowsill, it sits and stares
into the darkness we all merge in,
to where our passions sweep and surge in,
before it sails on it's excursion
in lonely seas, ephemeral air.
It's gossamer wings slip off the blade
your blamelessness forthwith unmade -
You're the corpse, I'm corporeal,
and with every carnal touch and feel
I make my blood, I make my meal:
I make sure I am paid.
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141,251 Literary Works • 674,330 Reviews
Almost like a poetic crescendo -- I loved how it gained pace and bite as it moved on, to that wonderfully phrased ending.
However, "blamelessness forthwith unmade" is almost impossible to read without my tongue exploding. Hence, change. It fits the scheme, but it's just crazy.
Good work, though!