In Somnis Veritas
By John Stocks
It is too late for fear
her wolf is yellow-eyed
sleek, suave, lupine.
His poetry was predatory,
it stalked, sought
the soft spots inside her head.
The wolf suckled her narcissism
with his desire, his fine words,
his flattery and fire.
Though it was his desolation,
that dragged her to his bed.
She did not choose to be his muse.
It was a mere transitory exposition
of her vulnerabilityEach rasping, gasping breath
a little death.