The She of Sorcery
The she of sorcery with
glossy thighs and silken tresses,
who walks but floats
with her tender feet suspended,
waving her rose scented wand
from the gardens of desire
by the powers of the secret order,
she with magnetic metals
in her eyes,
immersed in pools of sadness,
flaming rivers in her tears,
smiles of passion and pain,
chocolate lips of delight,
the taste of pleasure,
the she of the quixotic earth
moving toward me, the bewitched,
my trembling hands
and knotted torso screaming,
passion streaming, passion burning,
passion taken to the heights,
to the beds of Gomorrah,
bypassing all words and thought,
burning holes in the
books of etiquette, total
obedience to the laws of instinct
where the lions rule the jungle
and the wolves run to their prey,
their bitches of pleasure,
where nature is raw but natural,
and where life longs for itself,
passion mixed with pain and ecstasy
with the primal scent of love
in the nostrils and the groin,
with the love in its embryonic state,
of love in longevity but love in haste
sanctioned by the power granted
to the she of sorcery.
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