The Polite Noose

His touch was that of a polite noose,

With fingers of bony rope, around my throat

And nails of heavy lead, above my head.

His heart began to race, against my face,

In the grass of golden wheat, beside my feet

His lips on mine, large and obtuse

With all the supressed regrets

Of a polite noose

The End

1,110 comments about this poem Feed