from Paperless Poetry
4/26-28/2009
By Me
She and I walked to the bridge.
Oh, her brown skin was immaculately,
Gleaning in the sun. It was of all,
but the sight of her turned the season
To birth and bloom, but sure not blight.
I made her sing on the bridge while
I clenched her waist and rested my
Chin on her. She wistfully wept
While emanating her dying voice.
I clutched her slender ebony
Neck tighter as she serenaded
Her last lingering knightly note.
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