[POEM] No Name


He called her,
Never knowing her name.
He wasn’t interest though,
Because her beauty was the true reason he came.

He thought,
As he searched for a flaw.
But unable was his hands to see,
Any distraction from her apparent cause.

She had to be.
She was a dead poet’s metaphoric masterpiece.
Perfection did not do her just.
Indeed she was the final entree for his sublime lust-filled feast.


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