Soft, supple, sensual lips beg for stolen kisses under a full moon.
Two bodies dance in the flickering flame, trapped in the fire place.
sweat, fantasise and desire are wrapped up in bed sheets
all fear and insecurities have been stripped away and placed by our feet.
Rolling thunder, flashing lights and the down pour of rain is our soundtrack.
We are a storm. A force to be recon with.
Bodies that have embodied love.
something that you dare not miss.
Your hands paint, your tongue is your brush, your lips the final print.
I your canvas, your finished product, your hair a mess, drenched in sweat, shivers still traveling, slightly bent, completely spent masterpiece.
My fingers, pens.
Your skin my paper.
My thighs, story tellers
My innermost, pot of gold, something to work for; my journal that over flows when ever you take a peak.
My definition of every love song I've ever heard.
My nights of writers block, my loud thoughts in the silence, my gentle, my rough, my hard, my heart racing, still panting, job well done.
You my walking poem
-
Author:
Oraisha Roberson (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 6th, 2017 20:46
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 37
Offline)
Comments4
Great job!
very nice start welcome to MPS.
WELCOME DOLLBABY ~ Thanks for your first Poem ~ Sensuous and I felt every word ~ Thanks for sharing ~ BRIAN (UK)
thank you all
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.