I Am the Flower
I am the flower rising to your lips;
You are the sun that bends to mine.
I the butterfly at your fingertips;
You the hand of delicate design.
Burn me to my roots, O Mighty Sun!
I will catch the fire from your brow.
Or touch me till I'm utterly undone
And I will bite the hand that feeds me now.
Copyright © Brian Faulkner | Year Posted 2008
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