(04 October 1943 / Germany)

Them (Rev.)

His fingers probe,
crave all of her,
wet thoughts to come,
the silence of the Camelot
brings arctic air
to settle on
delicious stickiness,
as kisses flow between
soft twins to form
magnetic bonds
of lace and promises
where fishes gasp
for welcome pheromones
fall off the living wall,
scooped by the hands of love
and fed to hungry lips,
shared without conscious thought,
then cared for briefly by
two lusty tongues
that wander off again
but have a promised plan
to seek her dew of love
and his, which complements
all silly words that did,
if one looks to the past
came true and rose
like tulips of the plains
to moist and greedy lips
where droplets cling to skin
aglow with lava burn
a fire deep within
fed by a meteor,
sent by a cloudless sky.

He pauses now,
no time will wait for them,
though essences abound
engulf the mountain tops
the twins beyond the sea,
reason suspends itself
by way of willing flesh
the circle closes now,
surrounds a felon's skin
made velvety,
and glistening again
to glide into a rising tide
unknown to all
and to the infidels,
to mediocre souls
and man's indifference,
his inhumanity to man.

Two souls have met
without regard to Gods,
to devils of the deep,
and, like the waking touch,
their fingers intertwined,
they will remain
a delta force par excellence,
saliva's salty kiss
mixed with the heat of night.

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