The Writers' Circle

Don't know whether it's any good, but that's what critiques are for, right. Might sound Shakespeare-like though, or mayber it's me getting worried. It's in a form of a ghazal.

What other desires do men find more fun?
Other than finding to grasp you, Idun?

Your blood contains the Philosopher's Stone;
Your teats bear the Fountain of Youth. Idun,

Must men search for your hair and sweat alas?
Their knives crave to ram your apples, Idun,

For armed with thoughts of science and carbon,
They intend to carve your hide, sweet Idun.

One touch form you keeps men form the skies, and
A kiss from you preserves their feast. Idun,

Outlast the ripest of prunes your skin can,
Your bones purifying toxins, Idun,

But somehow you are a just yet cruel being
In this place called Satan's domain. Idun,

With Skuld, you perform all your rituals,
Divorcing men from your marriages. Idun,

You sit down and gazed at the earth, letting
Skuld dine on us until when you, Idun,

Craft Asgard's fill in the form of apples-
Apples made from your breasts-my date-Idun,

Yet your lady ships Pandora's box to
Lend one gift to us by you, sweet Idun:

Thankfulness. May the sun refrain from
Baking us this day. Although you, Idun,

Neutered us like the Leviathan, and
While men persists to find you, great Idun,

DeUndrae Perry, armed with a monk's heart,
Would rather you stay in Asgard. Idun. . .