The Passion of Your Rapture

Sensuality is weighed in measured moans;
The poetry of the movement of your body
Highlights your gorgeous tone.
I must dive into deeper waters to explore you further;
To release your essence,
I must take you to heights of ethereal pleasure.
If only silk sheets and plush comforters could whisper …
In its consistency honey is sweet,
But the taste of the fullness of your lips is sweeter.
Your release is akin to a thirsty man
Crawling in a desolate desert who finally found water.
We were once just lovers, but now we are in love with each other.
You are beautiful in your appearance ,
But to the scent of your perfume alone I would surrender.
With slow movements though I am eager, I write you mental love letters.
Your calm voice is like pink lilies on still waters;
The summary of our story is two Sagittarius hearts who found each other
And merged their fires together.
Alone we are still red flames, but together our blue flame burns brighter.
Talk to me sweetly my love, and let me bask in your sensual whisper.
You are a goddess with brown eyes, curled black waterfalls, 
And an ankle bracelet standing 5′ 5″ in your natural stature.
Our love is enjoyed in passionate moments and savored hours after.
The beauty of your aura are the pretty tones of your laughter;
Forever in your embrace I am enraptured.

Narration of Life

The crow still watches.
Strangest days are when music is played,
But the children do not dance.
Tears flow from eyes that see the darkness 
In nightmarish trance.
For her future sins, she says
Three Hail Marys in advance.
In the flesh beauty is adored,
But tired souls pull away in constant balance
Yearning for transcendence.
The light that is within is dimmed …
In death, eyes are closed,
And in birth, eyes are again opened.
Solace is doggedly sought,
But even by the wealthy, it cannot be bought.
The weeping of the children signals the horizon
Of a new beginning.
Who can fathom the deep emotions
Of the hearts of wounded men?
Love is found for a season
And then disappears again.
Memories of love resurface in the winter,
But there are no more passionate kisses by warm fires
Or tender hearts for shelter.
The callousness of life strikes and tears asunder.
The poet’s pen writes of love and heavy sorrows;
From a deep well of affliction and lost love,
The words he borrows.
As pen hits paper thus begins the concerto;
The violinist starts off slow
And ends in thunderous crescendo.
Emily Dickinson sings and writes anew
As she gazes out of her window.


With tears, the infliction of mortality was fiercely debated.
Memories of childhood joys appeared, but familiar faces were faded.
With a mixture of hysterical laughter, murmurs, and wailing,
The final act was finally abated with a crumpled note nearby,
With a name at the end stated.