A Sonnet to the Fisted

Dear constellation I wish for you to be my moon,
I shall be Neil Armstrong, gracefully staking claim,
Let bawled up appendage be the flag pole, that which makes you swoon,
In space they say one can not hear a sound or ignite a flame.

Although even in the cosmos my ownership will resound,
The likes that which would make even the greatest minds confound.
Oh sweet and lovely virgin of my dreams I have ever searched,
In the stars I sought to find you yet among the flowers is where you perched.

As you adorn the clothes and homes of Damascus, I wear you on my wrist,
The world thinks me amoral for the wish of possession of mere destruction,
Annihilation is deed to the wicked and devious Queen of seduction,
And when your innocence is no more, the flowers fragrance shall cease to exist.

In the end we’ll fall into a tangle of legs and arms and covers,
Then slumber deep we shall embrace for this is our place as lovers.

(c)2011