Proserpine

 

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

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