Dream of D.

Another dream reminds me what I lost-
in only sleep I hear her voice again,
I knead her shoulders, wade her milky skin,
inhale the scent of clove she flaunts when out,
and dine on that nubile visage she paints
with rich pastels that make addicts of monks
made blind by every thought she robs, invades
with ass that can eclipse the sun and chill
the sea. Medusa’s stare makes stone of hands
and feet (and more). Her eyes can crumble walls
I build, lace stumbles wills, and dreams corrupt
the phoenix flight. Dementia. The eternal night.

Critique

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