Behind the Windowed Glen

With maybe more than simple fascination
I watch over her description voyeuresquely,
how she so captions her interlude
with a palpable erotica that briskly paces
the generation of her dynamism,
hypnotic and only dissatisfying
in that the fevered moment has rounded
its season, not unlike a winter drift
that closes in the comforted
or imprisons the unprepared.

Each one must face a position
back to the wall or arched as a rain cloud,
snaking its charge and discharge,
viable, vibrant, vexing, and vexed.

What becomes salacious then is not the weathered
vanity of her discourse, coarsely strewn like fine tools along
an open highway that rather intones the art of the fixation,
but bent and needing sonic solemnity
her enraptured trove tears up and yet dries
at the thought of her lover's opulent vice-capades.

How then, to put it to a dull insensitivity of bluntness,
is this demi-god of feathered pallets  to bed
this cloistered call lily true and bursting
when so much tiger's blood lies spilt
and ramparts whistling gates are filly filled
and prodigal a lesson still a shy new stone?

I myself, with half as much light as miners here installed,
might have had a cameo in castle plunged if it were not jest
to ride and speak a compliment only to treasure her,
but yet such a smooth turn awaits so unabated, and yet hooked!
A fragile frame is cased, to show a single flower
how a blossom so often weaves a broken chance.

runningturtle87