Pigmas 2023 30 December

[RiverNotch]

Seventh day of Pigmas: the half-way point! Taking into account some of the feedback in the opening thread, ye respondents may follow one of three tiers:
(1 - GOLD) Write a sonnet based on the day's prompt. The final goal is to produce something approximating a crown of sonnets!
(2 - FRANKINCENSE) Write a poem of a particular form based on the day's prompt. The final goal is to produce something approximating a crown of that form.
(3 - MYRRH) Write a poem on the day's prompt based on your choice of poem from the previous day's prompt, making sure it's the same form as the poem you're responding to.

Today's prompt:
Write a poem involving virginity.

[Wjames]

Deflowering

There is no sacred first, the second burns
with equal heat and more control. The third’s
a graceful dance: follow, then lead and turn
the bed into a saddle, tickling spurs.

In a massage parlour above a bar,
a lonesome youth uses twenty seconds
of his thirty minute purchase. The stars
are blocked by clouds again, darkness beckons.

A dandelion shed its seeds, the stem
lies limp across the grass. Below the earth
the roots hold fast, in spring a yellow gem
erupts again, a sunlit green rebirth.

There is no sacred first, the second burns
the third into a fourth, the fifth still learns.

[CRNDLSM]

Faith is a blind leap where the dark is deep
Ignore all the dead bodies in a heap
It's all in your mind, you'll get there and find
They're pillows for the fall, the cliffs not steep
I like to think of it more as a slide 
 the sun makes it burn cause the waters dried
So you scrape and bleed while picking up speed
All but the law of gravitys defied
It's just the cynical cards I was dealt
Normal loss of innocence we've all felt 
My main objective to be protective
And take the hit when the world swings its belt
I like to think of it more as a slide
Face first of course, hands and feet both hog tied

[busker]

Reading about Bosie

I have been reading about Bosie
and I’m in love with that golden boy
with his slender waist and thin lips rosy,
like an old pederast of The Savoy.

The young lord lives in memory
as a cup bearer of paradise.
In that riotous realm, polyamory
and Uranian love’s a sight for eyes

tired of the sameness of existence -
this shopping for salt and toilet paper,
diapers, pads for incontinence
for after has dulled the dazzling rapier

of wit from entropy and time.
Dear boy, hyacinthus mine.