To Lay With Aphrodite
Charmed, might she be, by the song
Of a Dionysian prince, there is not
But the hint of sadness in their kiss,
Avalanching forth a fire-filled trance.
Reclining, she lowers her eyes,
Filling them with lavender amethyst,
Shifting them into an eternal midnight,
Rendering her captive into a mongrel.
Safely having reaped this harvest moon,
Aphrodite is engulfed in turquoise,
The tides of lapis having become his home.