My beloved muse, she stoops
Before my frame.
The warmth of her hands
Upon my waist;
How delectable it is, and yet
It is incomparable to the sparks
That erupt
As she stokes the fervour within.
Hands deft as a sparrow -
Soft, light,
And yet so swift.
It is as though she could draw out
My very soul.
With each hitch of my breath,
She quivers.
In one hand, a fistful of her hair,
And the other
Laid against her silken throat.
Our carnality, our sexuality -
What is it but the most natural
Form of love?
There are so few words
That may say as much
As the tender way she grips my body;
The glint in her eye
As she rises from her knees,
Tongue tracing those rubescent lips.
We labour for one another
Throughout the day and night.
The lengths we go to in order to please -
What sweeter metaphor
Could there be
For the labours we partake,
And thus the rewards we reap?
YOU ARE READING
Refraction.
PoetrySo many aspects, colours and themes make up our experiences. Truly, is anything entirely good or entirely bad? Upon weighing up the positives and negatives of the past, do we not admit that even tragedy is- in a twisted sort of way- advantageous? O...
