Enchantress, 1915, Konstantin Somov
I swallow smitten smoke
stomach the wake of verve ~
a corseted coherence
craving night’s clemency
while the sun sleeps
lips pressed to the searing chalice
intoxicated by silver essence ~
my fragile fragrance
You name my soul,
an enamored enchantress
the touch that craves not
a thousand thirsty eyes ~
misinterpreting inner magic
confusing compassionate
curves with consent carved
but I am not your temptress
nor am I a mystique
clothed in mists of memories
marooned in manipulation
I never ached to be the allure ~
bound to every burn
wading to savor my secrets
the intriguing incense
intricately kissing the cashmere air
the scent of the soul’s need
O spirit, guarding my light,
seek me as I am ~
an enigma, unfelt,
studying the silhouette
s i m m e r i n g
in crimson and copper
for the mirror
resembles threefold silence
wanting to be the destiny
not the dancing desire
dissolving into the drunken depths
of candle-lit dusk ~
your breathless incantation
a hypnotic haze
hand-woven into thin lace of love…
I am more than
your skies’ beholding ~
I am heaven’s eternal poetry
a pulse
no palm can possess...
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