A Convoluted Man: Poetry

And so he came
to see me,
the man behind
the myth,
an ink stain
that refused
to dilute in
the mechanisms
of my thoughts

He played at the
aristocrat,
but I saw instead
the rogue,
his dark eyes
glinting with
shadows even
in direct and
honest light

"And you, madam,"
he said idly,
"it is not as if
you've no secrets
of your own.
Beneath those
skirts you mock
chastity with
a passion
mirrored
only in your
breathlessness."

"Knave," said I,
"you'd dare to
taunt me with
your reckless speech,
here in my own
sanctury
where none tread
unless I wish it?"

"Aye," he said,
dark eyes like knives,
"I know you."

"I say, sir,"
I protested,
"surely you know
me not. I have
no blood for
ill-spoken wrecks
who seek the corners
to the exclusion
of the world."

But I was lying
and he knew it,
for his hand caressed
my shoulder,
letting me shudder
with need despite
myself

For there is no
greater danger
to a simple woman
than a convoluted man

So I love him,
though it shamed me,
I honored him,
though he ran off
into the wild,
without so much as
a backward glance,
he trampled my heart
with the hooves
of his transgressions

But he was dangerous,
erotic in his waywardness,
arousing by being derelict,
and it was tempting
to just dance with
the flame he held
though I knew I would
get burned

It was not as if
I did not know the risk:
each moment spent in
his heaven would
be thrice lived
in hell once he was gone
Yet I lingered
over our dalliance
without question,
without care

For there is no
unsuspecting quicksand,
no trapdoor whose
lock is bested
that can decry what
such a man can do
to a woman
without much
at all

Time stands still
on abandoned hills
and still we fall
for convoluted men...

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