Free Verse # 230 (the furnace of his touch)

In endless heatwaves
He rose through her flesh,
Flushing and dripping
Like rain from the clouds.

~

Her scent
He kept in a bottle
Hidden amid his books,
Each dusk he’d sip a dewdrop
And roam the night like a fool.

~

The furnace of his touch moulded her, a white flower breathing the sacred scent of dawn.

~

You enter me
like a leaf falls
to the water
and yet, somehow,
does not make a ripple.

~

His touch like a flame
curled along her spine,
burned in her womb,
oozing from her flesh
the fragrance of his kiss,
the essence of his poetry,
his sacred, white wine.

~

Relentless, my love for you, like the motion of the waves; patient like an oak standing in the rain.

~

He touches her
and she arches her back
as naturally as a tree sways
in the soft, breezing wind

~

Each leaf a sighing poem in the breezing wind.

~

What of poetry remains if not for the pleasure of being savoured by her lips.

~

What of flowers and dewdrops remain if not for the grace of being touched by her bare feet.

~

Like the waves of the eternal sea
my poem shrinks and expands
to the rhythm of her breath

~

My poem—composed of the silences beating in her heart.

~

The wave of her silence in me becomes poetry.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s