Ramblings with the Dead Poet -- III

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 Softly he touches my heart, he the dead poet

As I sit thinking of last night in her arms
He tugs away my exhaustion, tucks in my despair
Entrenched in the hollows of my mind, pleasure screams
Back into my sphere you have returned
Discard the veil of sour memories, my lady
Taste the new vintage, 'tis sweet and it warms
The glow in my eye can no longer be called madness
Lust fuels its fiery pyre, illuminated by your touch
Follow the poet, he tells me of you with tenderness
I, a steward of his teaching, entwined around the spindle
Creating the threads to weave, perched upon this hummock I
The clothes resulting cling to my flesh, moonlit tranquility
His music intensifying the transition my spirit endures

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