In oxblood on my coat
The plenty on the side
Spill awnings, stay afloat
The cavernous abide
The blurring of your throat
Still caving half your eyes
An aviary in notes
A keeling in your thighs
That evening I was prone
Lost sycophantic pride
Appealing to your bones
A reeling in your side
The canter to atone
The canter to atone
A fawning by design
But via alone
And ultimate resign
Ivory along
Suscitated tongue
I had palms that sung
I had palms that stung