Solitude

A sanctuary
Borne of battle's end
Silent but for squalls
And secretive stirrings
Of the nighttime bush
It is the witching hour
When imaginings descend
Replete with shadows
Seductively gliding
Upon dimly lit
Chaise lounges
Ensconced in scarlet
Silks and sumptuous
Furs evoking fervent
Future indulgence
With one's particular
Favourite