Gentle succubus of mal-formed parables
Beguile my slumber in waking hours no more

Prompted not be the shared shard of hopes’ geist

Lest be no more the vague scent,
Distinct within my nostrils flare

Content be that which lays to rest
The gentle truth less not known tread

Dust off the ash from whence you formed
Beguile the succubus of gentle mourn.


-J.G. Smith (07/31/06)