I find you amidst dust and alabaster
where you stand in smooth, marble pride.
Your skin is stiff and plastered
against all my caresses. You hide
the rhythm of the stone in your chest
but my straining ear heard its beat
while my own lilting heart knew unrest.
The divine Art of Venus I will not entreat,
for it was not my hands that carved
your body. Still, like Pygmalion playing
lover to his ivory girl, I am starved
for flesh to yield to my fingers, praying
that my own art, not divine or of stone,
can still make your heart revealed
to me. Let it be my own art alone
that will make such cold marble yield.














Devious Comments
Comments
I like how you allude to it. You describe the object of the narrator's desires quite well. I can visualize this marble-white classical beauty standing there while he attempts advances.
I love your rhyme scheme, it flows and isn't forced at all. Great job, it was a very good read.
--
"Over 676,000 people have been killed by guns in the U.S.A. since John Lennon was shot and killed on December 8, 1980."
Raw Emotion: [link]
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~Zar4
--
You can never go back
And the answer is no
And wishing for it only makes it bleed.
-Tom Waits
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