Matted dirt packed by boots too large,
and a sole to earth relationship.
The silence snipped the petals
from flowers now caked with dirt,
bent and bruised by carelessness.
If tongues could taste selfless hearts,
I think that I’d be speechless.
Then I think I’d view the world upside down
so I'll be high and they’ll be low again.
So daunting like a nightingale,
in your nightgown drawn tight to crafted clay.
Curves, that tease and tauntingly haunt
my hips like mountain tops that create
valleys out of you and me.
So flammable and ember sweet,
are you and I in close proximity
locking eyes like medieval swordsman
in some festival of passion art, parading
From your doorway to my bedroom.
With sleepy time eyes and warm ambition,
you undress under the heat lamps
that are my heart and streetlamp shine
through paneled window curtains left hanging.
Feather light and sewn in key,
with playful fingers caressing silken fabric
spread thin across a beautiful back bent
under the weight of worlds colliding underneath.
Our passion sun is setting...
A late night type of elegance…