Eyes

She's
A classical beauty,
Classically tragic;
Like a burned match
Ignited from a sharp static.
Pulling me in
Like the last glass
Of the red, red wine
Enough to drown me
Out of my fearing her;
Or so I burn my finger
By the match I am
Clinging to.
She'll use me,
O how she uses my feet
As I stumble door to door
In the low-lit walkways
To find her smiling wide
As apples in the mouth
For a moon-sized bite
And I just can't get her
Out of my mind
Tonight.