This
sugar plum love; and oh the value—the blood of lilies!
I
met a fever, a glorious woman, to halt at the ingress. I laughed the pain, to
shadow the hurt, pulled for closer. I wrestled the dignity, lips to breast, to
see her in glory. She wouldn’t give the seal of pressure, to perform at higher
levels. We tussled—the gladness, the ache of this life, to feel that
moment. I bathed a goddess, as petite as
models, to shelter her soul. Oh the closeness, the nearness of passion, to
clash with morals. I perished! Oh
this life, to enter slowly, to grapple the fire. The scratches and hickies and
pulls and tugs and childlike banter; we perish this joy, ever for fevers,
crying at the climax; where pain is sensual, and love is gradual, the courage
of a nation; to take a chance, to feel for jaded, too young to know. I love you this heart, to feel you this
soul, a magnet to woes; and forever a thought, the cloud of purple cherries, as
exotic as ocean sheets. I saw a
puddle, an African moon, to do the forbidden; and hitherto, a picnic basket,
bleeding heartwine. I hear for
secrets, to love for moments, the waves of our agony; where a goddess feels,
and I couldn’t give, the earth of this motion. Its lily blood, to drip the icecream, nibbling
upon dates; its figs and guava and mango peach—the extent of our fantasy; and
ever to live it, even a blue daisy—the cosmos screaming. It’s the Words of
Paradise, to script our psyches—the soul of gardenias; where sex is union, the
two as one, a blessing for the mind; in which is favor, the beauty of art, as
febrile as passion.
