Moira's Whim
A fawn was ousted into light
At Moira’s playful whim;
Its mother’s keening birthed delight
Too rapturous to limn.
If Circe were to steer your craft
To her Olympian shore,
Into your hair the wind she’d graft
Your favor to restore.
Into that fawn you’d then be turned
To quell her jealous lust,
Which never has so brightly burned
Nor risen quite so fast.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
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