Of Desire

She touches me, and I am of desire.
Torn apart, thoughts scattered to the wind,
Save one possessing thought that burns my soul:
Of her whose song is made of Dragon fire.

She skims my soul with skin and eyes and scent;
And though the world itself be falling down,
My mind and body, both, know only her
On whose each motion my attention’s spent,
My habit, and my best habiliment,
For I am of desire when she comes round.

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

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