Cooked Me Well

 
You cooked me well, good sir,
with fragments of fire born from lust.
Twisted and torpedoed throughout my loins,
the crushing sense of wonder fails to wane
even on the most deserted of nights.

When hollowed sounds of skipping toads
break the silent grip of shuttered night,
and when the gallops cease to kick
at the token-eyed sparrow
twisting about my latest plight,
till then I confess my allegiance
to each brilliant sky, dawn or midnight.

For it is the stars that truly own me.

Not even myself.