| Poetry: Lust: Cunning Linguist (1/1) |
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It up roots the most complicated of emotions, This sweet tonic called lust, Like a rusty dagger dragged across your insides. The first thing to go is pride. The thirst you have brings you down, Sweet intoxication is the moment of supplication. Her hands running through your hair, And all the cares of the world falling away Into the half understood meanings of far off days. Hexagons and pink tented ball bearings like giants eyes, Drifting down an emense waterfall the color of fire flies. Your Junior High trapper keeper and a 1980's love song materializing, Inexplicably as your eyes behold the tender contours between a womans thighs Into the folds, into the fray, a remedy for a rainy day. |
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