On tippy-toes she gleams and throws
her shade on shadowy spots.
Tied to a rope, she holds out hope
of rampantly running a-mock.
Dancing til then, she twirls and she bends
with silhouettes grotesquely tall,
who follow her leads, their elbows and knees,
herky-jerking the wall.
And she fills the room with waxy perfumes
as she sweats in her heated light;
cinnamon sticks and licorice whips
for the lovers who lit her’s delight.
They’re lying in knots, their energies shot
while she burns herself to the wick.
So, if they want her moods at their next rendevous
they had better blow her out quick.