Sleeps With The Stars


Papal colours daubed, on her parlour walls, invokin’ pious fear.
Pentagramic shrine, pentacles and signs, no Demons venture here.
Teasing her new lover, strips back satin covers, for one more good guy.
Naked she dances, jet black horse prances, Godivaesque rides.
Weightlessly she floats, weasels like a stoat, cascades golden hair.
Between woke an’ dream, are things all they seem? Perfection so rare.
Whispered gasps and cries, seed sham alibies, let her steal your heart.
The night air doesn’t breathe, time ticks by till you leave, trance-like you depart.
In a four poster bed, restin’ her pretty head, while an owl keeps guard,
daylight tightly shut out, within’ a black silk shroud, she sleeps with the stars.

©10.5.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman

Between awoke and dream, are things all they seem? Perfection so rare.
Naked she dances, jet black horse prances, Godiva-ess rides.
Papal colours daubed raw, on her parlour walls, invoke pious fear.
The night air still and quiet, inside your mind’s a riot, you’re losing your heart.
Naked she dances, her black horse prances, no more good byes/guys.
Daylight tightly shut out, wearin’ a black silk shroud, she sleeps with the stars.
Whispered gasps and cries, soon to be forgotten alibies, dream-like when you depart.
Between awoke and dream, are things all they seem? Her perfection is so seldom.


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