Ana Elsner
Ana Elsner Page 1

   Stony Sweetheart,
                                grazer   on    meadows       of skin,            WHO   chimed  you        into Sunday,
     the one  day    when there is      no bloodshed? Flirtatious Dominatrix,
                                      subject  of our fascination,
                          now unsleeping,
    now raised up
                         from the darkest       soil of heaven.

       Say you wish     you were a Seraphim,

    but slice    through our sinews
               with the gold tipped     blade of your song,

your   deliriously    hypnotic    siren song,

              that cripples    our feeble attempts
                       at  gasping        for life.
                        No bloodshed.

And you are      inscrutably      a  wanton Seductress,
               approaching          from far away,
yet    never    far   enough     away
             to save us        from        the predictable outcome
                 of our      dangerous        contrivances,
                                                                   and let us go                                   unclaimed.

Yours    is     immortally     a love   that is,    needs be,
                    all consuming,
                                     all exhaustive,