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Poem

Her skin is softer than the cotton of a Southern field;
she ignites the desire of a knight deserting the battlefield, 
slowly caressing every inch of her body...
arousing in her the thrill of ecstasy.


Her young lips are warmer that the evening sun,
and they can't escape the temptation   
to explore a short-lived obsession... 
deluding themselves with the hope of passing it on. 


If sweet kisses could turn into snowflakes and become indelible as memory, 
her velvety dress would be decorated with their unutterable beauty,
never allowing the distant sun melt them with its blistering breath...
winter clouds would brush her highlighted hair bringing in a surreal sunset. 


Her skin is softer than the cotton of a Southern field...
much silkier than a rose illuminated by a moon so pallid;
her image is similar to that of Mona Lisa with lovely eyes so wide,
and a virtuous, radiant smile that captures a weak heart like mine.  


Let me squeeze her like I would squeeze the fluffiest pillow;
she may giggle, or scream for the tickling sensation...
making me fondle her more: until I slip into another tomorrow
with the notion that I have reached my gratification.

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