‘The measuring cup’

I; consumed by fires within;
drawn in, to her burning sin.
Now perdition’s fames arise.
It only fans lust in my eyes.

By virtue of the sacred sword
my hand yields to her accord.
Fearless of air, wind, or rain;
lost my hope but it’s only pain.

As a knight I pierced her veil.
2 parts heaven, 3 parts hell.
Rare is it calm inside a storm.
Battles won, conflict reborn. 

Within her palm is my heart.
Serving of myself, torn apart.
Four lithe fingers and thumb.
Inside this grip, I am numb.


About Bo Bandy

Just a creative soul trapped in a world of cookie-cutter pragmatism...
This entry was posted in Different Perspectives, Essays & Rants, Poetry, Recollections, True Stories, True Stories, Essays & Rants, Uncategorized, Whimsical. Bookmark the permalink.

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