As her skin tastes like winehaving pressed the fruits of her passion.
brushing lips softly along the flute of her throat,
caressing the small of her back tenderly
so as to feel her breasts ripening beneath my weight.
She yields to the firmness of my resolve,
and gathering me into the garden of her lilies
embraces my eminence with
Death
© Charles Coakley Simpson 2010
No comments:
Post a Comment