A God climbed your Bronze tower
In the Silvery night,
Transformed himself to Gold torrents
In the gushing of his desire.
And now, all gaze in awe at you. With your
Creased brow and curled fingers, in the grip of
Your most private moment.
No death-like slumberer you,
Writhing in to your own petite mort.
Caressed by regal raiments.
Your lovely self, rising to meet that heavenly shower.
© Tom Tide 2016