Poetic Interlude XXXI

A guest poem, by a charming creature, N. It made me cry. Enjoy.

I am not antiqued.

I am not scented
With the brooding must and stature
Of ages,
Or the crushed femininity of Roses.

I do not sway
Under the heavy, topical purr
Of velvet,
Or the pomp of a heel.

No,
I do not
Embody
That archetype
Of kohl-eyed waiting, of swollen-red
Sexuality.

I am
just-made
This time around.

I smell of warm honey,
Of citrus, vanilla,
pepper
and lime.

I rove
More than saunter.

And prefer exploration-
However impractical-
To the combined knowledge of
The World’s faded Lovers.

I, too
Am at a loss to explain
How it is that you love me.

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About Ty DeLyte

Madame DeLyte has suffered a grave disappointment - YET AGAIN - and still believes that freedom, beauty, and truth are what's valuable, rather than vulgar cash. He'd add love to that list - but, well, what can he say about love?
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