To a Girl with Green Eyes
Watchful beacons fierce and free
The kind so green as verdant sea
Of mint and clover sentiently…
Wrapped around your pupil be
Etchings on a radial gem
Echo to my deepest whim
Crystal carvings never dim
Further from thy pupil stem
Glistening gaze of dampened jewel
Strings along the avid fool
Not so kind, but not so cruel
Instead a different kind of school
Luscious is the teary glaze
That gifts me just beyond the maze
To gently whisper sensual praise
And rival my most treasured days
Subtle flits of dashing green
Shifty, charismatic sheen
Piercing through prosaic scene
Coaxing me to intervene
Sights aligned with passion’s will
Sting me with thy lover’s quill
A woman, lest my heart be still
As she moves in for the kill
Iris twin; an emerald pair
Tell of field and forest fair
Gradient of goddess stare
I wonder what thoughts may be there
© Brandon Gene Petit
She Awaits
Eyes aflame with sapphire grain, my sultry mistress ebon-cloaked
Witch’s queen and lover’s vice, her hair reminds of raven’s coat
Her crimson lips boast thicker spells, my incense-perfumed spirit tease
In wait for me in amber light, midst pyromantic luxuries
Dressed in shadow-melding cloth, her form sylphlike yet hard to draw
Shifty in the flickering light, her flux offending natural law
Her skin is neither pale nor dark; polite to touch as dewy fruit
But never cross her path with spite; beware, my friend, her soul is brute
Her beauty shines when sadness looms, her tragedy devours as flame
Restlessness consumes her bed, a full moon I am glad to blame
She tends to an erotic lair, a curiosa wonderland
Lit by slanted window shades and kissed by oriental fans
Flightless fairy, clad in black, her voice divinely resonates
Requesting me to drop my guard and lend my heart out to the fates
She slithers through the velvet sheets, a French composer in the air,
Lending out a finger curled, commanding with a demon stare
Labored with nigrescent opals heavy on her neck and wrists,
She opens up her curtained arms to soon begin this sacred tryst
Breath of cloves with hint of mint, a fragrance that soon greets my face
Her lips the color of her heart, her hair the scent of pillow lace
Time is not a rigid service, meaningless within her vault
Hours pass, so fleeting, as her tears and sweat reward me salt
Torch-flames tremble to the passion; vaulted roof, two lovers under
Unity of souls ensues, entwining to the song of thunder
Then she shows me opiate visions clad with necromantic zeal
I swallow them with wormwood wine; drunk, I question what is real
Her fingertips caress my cheek; strokes me with her dainty claws
She stimulates my weaknesses and enters through my mortal flaws
Her pulse resounds within my chest; my mantis lover takes control
I’m weakened to my very knees, unstable like a newborn foal
She leads me down a stairwell where the edge of darkness titillates
I follow her to drunk abysses, faithfully, where she awaits
© Brandon Gene Petit
DREAMS IN THE WOMB 