humid in equal rays of mellow sun-set.
And today, splendid, yet resplendent,
vignettes we made up to foment;
We vent in relent, and now it sinks,
a minute's hand, she lets them think.
Decorations emerge, contours of naked wear,
they despair, glances of hopeless stare.
The vestige is still anoint, placed level,
with fortitude, she dazzled and swiveled.
Herein, the drivel was inappropriate,
it dictated as we stretched, as sedate.
Soon, her penchant for me will softly clear,
as when I scribble these lines, the intention disappears.
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