Re: John’s Sorrow

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John’s hours were collages
of Fanny’s face.
Her playful beauty,
paper lantern hands,
and buttery lips,
captivated his tousled mind.

That vitality
blinded, teased,
the hungry palate
of his passion.

He yearned to entangle himself
in Fanny’s tender-legged
woven warmth,
nestle in her swollen breasts,
just once.

But he lay withering,
a wilting man
never content,
pale, sickly,
bereft of the soulful
song of birds
breathing melodies
into the warm air,
he was damned forever
as Keats
the mournful,
melancholic romantic.