lost chance

Your eyes are framed,
a match with your shoes,
your spirit untamed,
those lustful nails, hold the clues.

Your scarf serves the purpose,
of many ancient death-cloths,
where ones energy, is preserved,
by exchanging each others’ gods.

You carry around,
an armor of delight,
urges of the underground,
for who lets you out of sight.

Though the shield of my gut,
deprives me of: Magdalene, Maria,
you wait and then, no more,
and I cravingly find myself, drinking Sangria.