My Lovers For This Year

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She makes firm promises anew

against bitter storms that blew.

She’s my sanctuary

and she’s mine again in blazing fire

while winds outside howl in ire,

my love, January.

 

She’s bitter and cold at heart

and demanding from the start,

a turbulent estuary

toiling through a spiteful blast

Her passion is short and fast,

succubus February.

 

She’s the promise of spring

and all the joy it will bring,

my youthful inarch

grafting renewed life from soil,

while kissing away winter’s spoil,

my maiden, March.

 

She’s full of generous grace

that blooms on her young face.

She’s my staple.

She clouds with sudden rain

but washes away winter’s pain.

My sweet April.

 

She warms to the growing year

and whispers sweetly in my ear,

“Let’s make hay!”

as she lies surrounded in blossom

pressing me languidly to her bosom.

My darling bud, May.

 

She’s bright in a summer sky

And sees with her stifling eye

My heated swoon.

she is a sweet vision of a dream

serving strawberries and cream.

My honey, June.

 

She is passion and sweat

conveyed on her flaming heat.

I’m seduced by

her touch on cool satin white

lying naked on a sultry night.

My lover, June.

 

She is grace personified

and longing dignified

O, empress of lust.

Her ardent light grows ever few

towards old sorrow and yellow hue,

yet she’s August.

 

She’s blessed with eastern flame

that sets summer to shame.

My Indian ember

offers sweet and spice, and lament,

avidity quenched, an end well meant.

O, dear September!

 

She is hushed by colder grieving sighs

as yellow-red drops from ashen skies.

My heroine sober,

her breath cuts through our lover’s dance

tearing us asunder before winter’s advance.

Yet I love you October.

 

She’s stern of face, and steel of grace

raising tumult over dampened waste.

Her fires remember

and burn away my vanity with iced water

after witches’ night. She’s October’s daughter,

my princess, November.

 

She is big of heart and twice as dark

with warmth inside while out is stark.

Her full red member

comes but once on her frozen tear

but she glows to bring me cheer.

My everlasting December.

 

Rochester, 17th January 2016

 

Image: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/8f/fb/e4/8ffbe43bf7d18c5425a97a05d7e7cc9b.jpg

About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on Niume.com.
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