At midnight your beauty rare as the moon,
Floating and lighting the nights darkened bloom.
A kiss, one so golden, your lips red and soft.
Playing like children, in winters first frost.
Deepness my mouth, wanting on yours,
Your touch so foreboding, your taste I need more.
Down to your neck, a golden white paint,
Softly caressed, my brush all but faint.
Your legs long and slim, like sweet roses grow,
In waters of angels, all in a row.
My love you are mine, I am yours too.
Together we die, torn ever Strewn.
Finally the dance, ended in breath.
Our hearts both but one, forever of breadth.
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Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 13th, 2026 06:13
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
Offline)
Comments2
Passion is a poem where physicality is expressed in touch. Nicely worded
Like the first kiss...
Could be
(A kiss, one so golden, your lips red and soft.
Playing like children, in winters first frost)
Beautiful lines here. I like a poem that can speak of passion without crudness.
Thank you for reading and commenting:)
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