A Love Slave's Shanty To A Goddess... Poem by Mark Heathcote

I will look for the spry blossom called Phoebe.
There is nothing as virtuous or saintly as the white gipsy.

I will find me—that last green forget-me-not.
What matters—the cost—if I don't hit the jackpot?  

I'd like to look for—the pale goddess of the moon;  
She to me should be the sun, and I, her Neptune!  

'If she would, but peel me in her bergamot. -palm
... Sister of Apollo'. I'd shyly sing my last Psalm.

Lie with me; with the trident in Poseidon, crowned:  
Enter within me, all this eternity newly bound.

Love, let no mountain shade your innate fancy.
Earthquake: Wild horses shall not tether my fiancée. 

Like the smoking waves upon the siren's shore
I'll descend to meet her when the rocks of thunder roar.

When the foam of white perfection is my narcissism
Reflection transformed; answer then why we're so tawdry. 

Answer me why. Like the sea, forever U-turned 
These lover's hearts, like flowers, should be spurned.