He Who Wanders

Silver-toed sprites

Dance on sultry,

Summer winds.

Their forked, honey tongues

Lick the blood from my ears,

Brush the dust from my chest,

And leave only sleep

In my eyes.

A quivering faints

From my slender, starved limbs,

A pathetic, pulsing tremble

I never knew existed.

And in its place,

The pixies paint a tingle

In my brain,

On my skin,

In my veins.

Lightning rivers strike

The sorrow clean

From my flesh.

I chuckle in my throat.

They giggle in their breasts.

Our grinning, red cheeks

Burn hot around one another.

Then, burn lower,

Lower,

Dimmer,

Alone.