She Comes to Me

She comes to me softly,
In the middle of my slumber,
Her desire is evident,
An insatiable hunger.

Pressing up against me,
Her desire to consume,
Turning over, I see
Nothing in the room.

Save for the gentle outlines
Of her face so sweet,
But in her eyes, unmistakable,
On me she wants to feast.

I yield to her advances,
Her beauty I behold,
But growing deep within
Desire, grown of old,

From something once repressed,
Aching to be free,
Thankful that finally,
She can trust me.

-- I.R. Shackleford