Burning

The fire
Rages
In stages.
At times it burns low
And I know
Sleep
Will creep
Into my room,,
Her sweet perfume
Rendering me
Free
Of desire.

Yet at other times the fire
Doth burn
Bright.
My thoughts turn
To delight,
Which slippery as eels
Itself reveals,
Then, a fleeting satisfaction seals.

Midnight steals
Away.
The hot coal
In my soul
By day
Burns low
Yet I know
The glow
Is always there
And will, once more, flair