Chrysopoeia

My love is pewter.

Given to base grunting, and rude
And crude
Expressions of vulgar desire.
Bite the stannic apple.

Part your
Hair and whisper in your creamy ear
Forbidden nothings.
Watch you squirm and undulate
Under the influence
Of Scandal™ (that mutable aphrodisiac).

Laying the slushy foundation for the
Oncoming bloom of
Flowers of consummated passion.

Nurture with a caressing word.

Until the ancient madness that courses through
Our veins comes to a head:
Waters the lakegarden, exhausts itself.

And out of the dirt, beauty.
Out of the mud, a quivering lotus.

Almost immediately despising its roots --
A saint rising on verdure nobility of birth above
the condescended huddled filthy masses.

Pure, friable, innocent, prodigal.

The urgency eases cataclysmically into a benign, golden mood, and
The alchemy is complete.