The limbs of rhythm play against my skin,
My arms are enslaved by long, pulsing notes,
Eyes promise Eden then whisper sin,
I reveal so much while I bare my throat,
Red lips echo longings that hips emote.
Ageless and wanton, these feet spin and turn,
Deep in my belly a hundred tales burn,
Bells sing on my wrists, rings gleam on my toes,
Passion now smolders as the night I churn,
Veils slowly fall as this fantasy grows.
By Cyndi MacMillan, March 15, 2012
For Nette Onclaud's Dance Contest