Fried Egg
On the pan she cracks on the edges
Flows in her white gold love rashes;
Wet to oil, bottoms turn up in fumes
Sigh, sizzles to burns in her top cues.
Hot as roasted, spiced in cheekiness,
Crusts within the silky ceramic lust:
Fingers feel cling to the push shove
Tongue melts into lick, flip; lip sucks.
Molds fold with in the hardness cuts.
Aroma breaks the churning of beats,
Touches to heap and urge the squeals
Lifts and drops akin to the greasy eel.
Life is passion in word promises
Beauty in metaphors is my trust.
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