Rarest Mould

Her jibe at my masculinity made me furious,
that it had hit a deep festering wound was lost,
what copulation felt like, I was deeply curious,
was procreation the only duty, something to boast;

can any sane man fault me that I don’t lust or love,
though insane even I could see the light of reason,
I, a land that can’t be tilled with mightiest of plough,
the almighty and petty world guilty of high treason;

love is manifold and part lust, passion for the flesh,
rightly so, divined above, all partake joy me exempt,
my capacity to love in kindness will make people blush,
not that I am devoid of desire, I sin and am often tempt;

the high truth is that I am man beyond words and worlds,
a lover of prowess beyond man and wife, rarest of moulds. 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s