A Burning Flower

I plant you in my inmost garden
where each poem is a flower
sighing powdered lust,
fine grains burning slowly
craving to sink in the flesh of desire.

The water in your womb flows,
your pores, like crimson, swollen lips
exude erotic musk,
a wetness calling all the heat
to invade the depth of your rosy flesh,
and you inhale, hard and deep,
an air so dense it burns
in your throat and lungs,
seeping like liquid fire in your veins,
becoming yourself a burning flower
swaying to the music of my flute,
shivering with ecstasy at my tender touch.

Exhale now, my love…

4 thoughts on “A Burning Flower

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