Tip of the Tongue

Tip of the Tongue

Monday, 17 February 2014

Sonnet 1

O, my sterile unceasing love I go,
Although many will say the same of you.
Through you I go, through and through to and fro,
I hear your groaning cease and then you flew.
You take me so, to where I wish to be
But you traffik yourself to the masses.
It hurts no more, from your tunnels to flee,
You taste so bitter, dark like molasses.
Yet you are but the underground Metro,
What can I expect of you otherwise?
Screams and moans denote that you're far from slow
This was just to show what you can disguise.
So often it is the reverse for these,
Sex hidden by mundanity to please.

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