Waves Gold

Waves Gold
Do you still write poetry today?

Oscar Wilde (1854-1900). Poems. 1881. 38. The Gold Room: SA hands harmony of ivory ivory keys lost in a restless sleep, like the brightness of money when the rustling of poplar leaves pale recklessly, or foam to drift a stormy sea When the waves show their teeth in the flying breeze. Her golden hair fell into his wall of gold balls turned on Virgin delicate calendula hard enamel, or a flower the sun turning to meet the sun When the darkness of night brings out jealousy, and the spear of the lily is twisted. And her sweet red lips on my lips burned like these rubies set on fire in the flickering light of a Red Temple, or bleeding wounds of the pomegranate, or heart of the lotus flower and wet with the blood soaked red-pink.

sounds like porn to me Oscar Wilde was gay, I think that great author, "we can all be in the gutter, but some of us are looking to the stars" vaguely cited