Dinner with Mephistopheles (A
Shakespearean Sonnet)
The way you held your glass to toast the night
as if you owned the rowdy, scarlet saloon
with eyes that glittered in the creamy candlelight
my words were flummoxed under the weighted moon.
With cottony words you had set the mood
my arms did ache to lay me down
and hold you fast in your quietude
in passion's haste I yearned to drown.
The apple that bore the tempting of Eve
a single bite left her wanting more.
I'd rather partake in Eden's make-believe
than find me on a passionless shore.
I had dinner with Mephistopheles
and lost my soul at one hundred degrees.
No comments:
Post a Comment