A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


The complicity of woman
That rare softness,
A tacit promise
Of tactile paradise,
Intimate corners,
A warm sheath,
Home for a sword,
Skin deep,
Only a flesh wound.

Crawling on her belly now
Skin caked in dust,
The fabled vow of gallantry,
That mythic trust
The crucible of life
Violated by
The Anatomy of Lust.

Twisting down the
Long avenue
Of morality,
Squealing and
At ankle height,
Self-righteous bolts
Of judgement
Searing down
From every eye,
Branding that flesh,
Sealing those lips,
Scrambling her mind,
Ignoring her soul.

It is blind,
The eye of Justice
Who holds the balance,
A full measure of corruption
In her scales.

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