Buried
in sand, a solitary rosy finger protrudes
Come to my embrace
The dull eyes of the shark rolled back at the
sight of lustful sacrifice
Waves roll past the grave of the unknown poet
Sinking for envisioning
The body mortifies
For dreaming of heights above
Languid, helpless; but most certainly fantasizing
The pitiful bard sings a song of love-in it makes it die
"Improve!" cried the keeper of Venus
Hope for you is an Opium Den
What motive did the writer have in its arm?
To dominate with masculine cold abandon?
To be crushed against anvil-like breasts?
The situation exposed heartbroken motives
She was hunted, never to be found
No death was ever known with such disregard