Art Gephyr

Trust No One

Drunken lust
And sweet seduction
The aphorism tempts
With barren fruit
Of complete destruction

Those cradle arms,
A nourished bosom
That's bursting ripe
With pungent milk,
The salving sputum

To bathe or drowned
It's hard to tell,
So self absorbed
In memory once
Of life pell-mell

The wounded's urge
To rest and mend
In the sacred womb
Of a lover's cryptic
Trundle bed

A protective curl
And drift asleep
The breathing tomb
In fertile dreams
Of arrested seed

And slowly wither
In your box
But sans a bruise,
To never risk
Another's frost