Prufrock's Poetry and Short Stories

First Flight



Timid as a moth

my willing wings embrace

the hollow of her love;

dark on the sheet her face.



Inviolate sweep and pivot of wings,

careful the first ascent;

confidence in the gear unbent,

her perfume smell still clings.



Wake to her touch, a summit

which defies depth;

raised to new heights, a plummet

deeper than death.



In harbor, anchored like a lotus,

my ship of painted sail.

The lady bids adieu, farewell:

I hardly even notice.






Happy Valentine's Day!