Lily
She’s in a cloak of colors calling loud,
While they are wrapped up in a holding hug
Beyond the cries above a roaring crowd.
He gives her golden hair a gentle tug.
And hovers here by her small flower flame-
The lovely Lily longed and lusted gleams
Reflected from the sun of blazing shame
With all her yellow pollen dusted seems
To sit upon a steaming wooden pyre.
The heated gusts like ghosts who want to haunt
The others, teary eyes entranced by fire -
Its arms of orange-red immodest taunt
     The faces in unknowing light, defined
     Unmasked, the lily burns the well refined.

© Marie Meadows