Between the Stingers
Trust, like a pitiless whore-master, grins
as between the sheets and at my breasts, he suckles.
Though Cupid lauds' the joy, I feel only stings.
The manic moon shivers to shriek-like violins
as trusting seed is split and son-less my knees buckle
mother-less street urchin blanched, impatient, sin.
In sympathy the sun pales night's mood swings
seeking to caress and hold with a fractured chuckle
love's exhausted, and misspent, ripened lingerings
To the dying day and I, cry of might-have-beens
ivory white my ice hands, my bleeding knuckles
Trust like a pitiless whore-master grins
Though Cupid lauds' the joy, I feel only stings.
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