Journey to Ixtlan

Pop quiz... what happens when you write poetry while listening to the soothing sounds of London After Midnight? Answer... you end up writing lyrics like “Night of Decadence”. Song writers and poets beware!


Night of Decadence
Poem for Day 148 – 20150528

Seduction was our goal,
forgotten now in dark vice.
We are given to each other,
to indulge the mutual whims.
Angels turn their faces
devils blush with shame
as we indulge today
in thirsts finally sated.

Night of decadence,
ours for a time,
until we wake again.

The games we will play,
with rules oh so few,
to win is not the goal,
only to finish, again and again.
Unfetter the desires,
release soul's siren call,
nothing matters now
as dark needs are consumed.

Night of decadence,
ours for a time,
until we wake again.

Our souls revealed in brightest dark,
streaked with regrets put aside.
Innocence is now a relative thing,
shades of gray against black desires.
Nothing left to forgive,
all has been fully given
with the rest of life to forget
this night of our decadence.

Night of decadence,
ours for a time,
until we wake again.
Night of decadence,
may we stay for all time.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved

Sometimes you just have to start writing and see where the story takes you. This time around I knew I wanted to do song like lyrics. I was pondering how enchanting the swing dancers looked in their photos, and the poem kind of wrote itself from there!


My Enchantress
Poem for Day 037 - 20150206

My enchantress, temptress innate,
cast your wide web, entrap my heart.
You've no powers, none they can see,
and still I'm drawn as moth to flame.

Your voice beckons, lurid summon.
Why am I so helpless siren?
Cuffed by moans, caged by cries.
You call, I come, answer replied.

Recline in your arms, melt to your touch,
willing prisoner tethered to flesh.
How could I leave a perfect place
heaven found here, caged by arms.

Lift voice to speak, lips intercede,
no cry escapes as mouths embrace.
Passion erupts, seeking a voice,
language of mutual desire.

My enchantress, temptress innate,
my wings burn bright with our delight.
Could I escape this pleasure found?
Perhaps tomorrow, not tonight.

© 2015. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved