Love is to perpetually desire; To sow the earth for another to reap alone. But the planter's hand Holds only seeds- His back is hunched and weathered. While the reaper stands so grand and nourished- her sickle broad and swift. The tragedy is that, Desire ends at the point of surrender. Through nights alive, where dreams are full and plenty. I have the occidental wine and women in the night As they retire to their woolen sheets. When I make my camp, I face it north - A stoccado gleams upon my breast. & as I lay, my thoughts are simple, and all my dreams are gentle.
Reason for writing:
a girl. a woman rather
Birth sign: Aquarius
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Payne, David.