Smoky Secrets
She was a scavenger of secretsA high mistress of the vignette
An adept concealer of regrets
"Now where's that cigarette," she says
My Love you know we are that match
As she murmured, "Heaven is a nicotine patch."
She lit a match across my palm and laughed
I coughed a verse, 'Dear please do your worse, nothing better suiting."
The veils of smoke she wore as though a universal dress
Spiraling nebulae of light involving intricate spider finesse
Lacing her fingers through mine, intertwining triplets too, eyelets
Her go awhile to smile the snow in file did show a shadow in the trees
So deep were we to hinge our bets
An adept concealer of regrets
A high mistress of the vignette
She was a scavenger of secrets
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2016-03-04 at 19:16
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