by Ken Harnisch

‘Tis not wine I drank
When sipping at your grail
‘Tis some nectar
That you brewed in a sorcerer’s
Cup, and sprinkling the froth
With leaves from some
Crushed velvet scent of yours
Drove me mad with black desire.
Your dresses rustle in that silken way
As you glide the hall, but I, already snare to
The spider’s lovely web, can only writhe in
Hot denial. I will drink no more!
But the crescent wedge of nectar
On my upper lip is yours
And…such passion does not lie.


Author's Note: God's sweetest and most insidious ambrosia

Posted on 03/16/2007
Copyright © 2024 Ken Harnisch

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Kate Demeree on 04/15/07 at 02:09 PM

Okay... so it just got Really Hot in here or it's me... *laughing*! Gave it 4 stars... wooooo hooo!

Posted by Lauren Singer on 01/22/08 at 06:37 AM

yowza! nearly sinful, ken.

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