To Relinquish the Sword for the Ring

Hope’s panties fly off rustic legs parting like logs split in a jam—jacked like lumber ripped down from a virgin forest—quickly, they drop like silver dollars wearing out a torn purse—fistfuls of fevered intentions; losing hands folded—onto Chance’s emerald velvet, floored.
          In a chowder-breathed bowl of mid-morning, ivory-kissed clouds pour like two souls into one child’s gaping mouth, as Penelope and Daniel devour each other in a funerary pose—branch swelling to root, breaking through damp earth; Truth touches himself, tasting of Circumstance his toil, plowing forth.
          A path veined through sweat-soaked patchwork performs its best look, painting Nature’s floor like a harlot rehearsing her wedding-day, avoiding hard work; girth and girl dressed-down, brown tresses rebelling abruptly, adroitly, against slow-poured Macassar oil, mourn Purity’s gown now soiled.
          Achilles dismounts as lovers’ tendons turn loose spruce-white heels onto frontier ground they stir up—pounding flesh, Penelope’s fists hit her thighs, while Daniel’s thicken Passion’s welts, blushing licentious breaths, purple heart-works, onto her inside and out—suppressing shouts, both caress what their bodies cannot, balls, breasts, minds muddied and pressed into a knot binding their efforts in a grunting pact; love made in anticipation of there being no tomorrow.
          Allegories lament lyrics capitalizing on their legend, chorusing perversions clad in thinner veils, exposing unimaginably their bad intentions, the honesty of which they are unaware—Sorrow’s climax meanders on through chosen indiscretions; bare-breasted, slanderous—tonguing into their own pulsing ears euthanizing ballads from which they are yet recovering—Penelope and Daniel’s expedition into the dew-strewn meadow plateauing, Hope rolls over; creeping off before the youths can chase her, licking their fingers like dawn.
          Relinquishing his sword for her ring, skeleton-robed Wisdom falls for Epiphany—extinguishing his weapon’s crimson feel; from emboldened steel to eel-cold shivers his shriveling cock—Penelope, pondering his conversion, how Daniel’s own downing rubs her like a concession, reasons that, in such a belligerent theatre, she can war on Love, so she summons him farther in, pushing his face—its grain against her shorn shame—and innocent no more, she smiles; their idle hands to blame.