Had I not the spittle of your kiss,
‘ere, I’d be the crest of a desert dune,
fated only with wind as my master,
and loathe of the sun’s searing heat.
Had I not the milking of your touch,
‘ere, I’d be waylaid among brambles,
withered and wasted, laid upon thorns,
calling for the moon to bid me grace.
Had I not the sentience of your gaze,
‘ere, I’d be undone, a stone grave statue,
taunted with beauty beyond my reach,
e’er devoid of mind, having no muse.
Had I not the warm breath of your sigh,
‘ere, I’d be brittle, as aged, dry wood,
cracked and rotted, alive but unaware,
left here to live out my days in shadow.