There's a poem waiting for me

she's upstairs in my room,

she's lying legs akimbo

and howling at the moon

 

She's been there since this morning

rearranging all my thoughts,

burning all my crosses

obstructing all my noughts.

 

Every line she is transmitting

gets scrambled in my head,

she's adding and omitting

from the pages of my bed.

 

Oh to climb the hallowed stairs

to claim the sacred key,

to unlock that which she shares

so exclusively with me...

 

she's the mistress I can't woo

she's the siren of my luck

she's the one I bow down to

though will never get to fuck.

https://wolfgarwords.com/2026/05/05/the-chastity-of-poetry/