Though you be almost ageless
you are ever still the tender slut
that first emerged without blemish
from churning restless Okeanos.
They say you were quick to be clothed
though no cloth could ever hide
that fragrant skin that shames roses
or the shape of that perfect thigh.
It would take more than poetry
to describe the enveloping folds
of your moistened luring lips
that speak with no sound uttered.
Lean over me and focus my gaze
with twin points of vanity reminding
that not all apples grow on trees
and not all fruits are attainable.
Though your cunt be smith-owned
(on paper and in myths as if they count)
let me not forget that it is the only power
that can sheath war without destruction.