sex poem

truely
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
this is the ship of pearl
often is it not so?
over the river, on the hill
when night drifts along the streets of the city
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
had he and i but met
so lost
who is the runner in the skies