This Daylights Love Poem by Mark Heathcote

This Daylights Love



Alone with her loneliness, she'd placed
In a darkened segmented basement:
Under her eyelids her impassionate prey.

Was had she not grown quite nauseate
Of being a moth beneath iron grates:
She'd long given up on bat-like wings.

But for her insular lusts of blood l tasted.
She'd have 'Love' stoppered affordably bottled.
Poured from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

There her personifications of a nude fresco
Lecherously, joining us in this vampirism:
Would buttress against us her kissing.

Sleepovers in a velvet casket of stars
With her needs ancient as a pagan forest.
That longs for the starlight's faucet fix.

So her emotionalism's tap' runneth over
As she reaches up from her foundation's root:
Night butterflies fly-out: This daylights love
This daylights-newly, amalgamated lover.

Sunday, February 3, 2013
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