He'd send for servants.
Testing, he'd ask them to please.
Breathless and willing,
heaving and shy,
removing their garments,
they pressed against him.
He'd recoil and send them away.
His feet, delicate and remorseful,
were outlined against marble by moonlight.
A thought, temporary and laughable,
discarded at once but true,
passed through his brain -
"I'll kill them for their lust."
"Send for them again, I'll try again!"
he would proclaim, and as always
it would end in solitude
and imaginary murder.
He would have been less guilty had he
actually killed.
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