(04 October 1943 / Germany)


I wake with you,
the thought of skin,
of knowing hands
and lustrous hair
that falls and frames
me, as we kiss,
your softness,
touching barely
not a tease
a brush with love
I like each one
inside, to roam,
a palate's dream
bathed lovingly
with time a distant thought.

Yes, please, I ask,
replenish you to me,
there's always more,
you say, and all for me,
'twas natural from then,
the day we knew
you nurse me well.
The morning's Dew
prepared to please
a taste of bliss
Six equals two.

The wrath of grapes
attempts to stir,
to sabotage
the peace
and ambience
of a lover's night.
It fails,
there must be words,
barrage deletes collage
though he is still,
and listens to her voice
as true love will.
New glitches come,
brought in by gnomes,
and angry gremlins
from a lazy past,
they penetrate
the open mind
and settle deep within
to take the reins
and throttle mares
and mustangs
slyly from behind.

They must prevail,
no glass will live
through times
of meteoric storms,
yet those that are,
have mustered it,
blessed by
and now consumed
by the profundity
of genuine love,
they will emerge,
still wet
from skirmishes
of fragrances inhaled,
and tastes beheld,
of melting with
the core of two
to fuse,
and form a bond
not to be torn
by careless hands.

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Comments (1)

Lovely. Lynn Rowe