Your name trips from my tongue in three brief sighs,
Proserpine, fair empress of temptation.
My gaze is ever drawn to your dark eyes;
Twin pools, offering such pure libation.
Yet you, the epitome of denial.
Left hand clasped to steer you from desire;
Will never more your crimson lips defile,
From this moment- until your funeral pyre.
With head averted from both warmth and need,
You seek the shade of shadows, duty-bound:
To beckoning pleasures you pay no heed,
Despite the endless joys that could be found.
You are the embodiment of duty,
Divine denial, suffusing you with beauty.
© Tom Tide 2016