There’s next to no sense in anything fun:
Whims, like winds, startle roofs with their rages.
We’ve liquored and loved, before, till the sun
Shushed us off to sleep like sober sages.
Quiet, this house now keeps saner hours
Where wandered wishes’ eyes I kiss tight shut
When, wistful, I wonder upon our bower,
That bed, where, lonely, I toss in a rut.

No fun! But fitful dreams pen hard demands
Upon the book of my hesistant heart,
These feet to follow wherever your hands,
With cunning craft, escort me to my part
Of bowed silence upon the barren stage
Where humbled lust must ink my fate’s next page.