Among twenty snowy mountains, the only moving thing was the eye of the blackbird. - Wallace Stevens

BUSY BED

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Her love last but for a night. Her lover never comes unless the moon is fresh. They did evil in the open eyes of moonlight. Into inner part of their soul they perish. Sweat of passion erect an ocean around them They imitate the beast with two backs. Every night they sleep on clothes hem. Even the dogs sees their shadow and barks. The wind of change is yet to blow. To blow their sense of pride and dignity back again. Their dignity has been tramped upon down below. They are yet to regain sense and be born again. Without fear or tears they set the desire loose. Giving themselves out for a lessen price and token. They are always busy on the bed like bed bugs. Cling to every man for their desire to be taken. Lost in the lust of their own withered flower Flea are they that jump from one host to another. Seeking whom to devour the innocent night with as dinner. Their night is void of dream since they are not a dreamer. All men enter the door since the door was broken. Caution is an abuse to the flaming urge. Turn after turn each day their shame is rotten. Their heart is scotch only to be purge. Until that day the moon will cry with blood Their sense will tread them roughly Regrets of their wrong steps will carry them like flood. Their body will cry for regeneration painful. Only those who will give up and find their better life will survive the bloody flood. ..Virginity lost is not a solid reason to give up on moral dignity and caution to sexual exploit



© Jacob Anthony
2018-11-30

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