Musk of His Flame
Somewhere along waxed moonglow,
he is there
like a sweet aftertaste on my lips;
through warm fingers he groans
as silence closes my eyelids...
and even the pang that he leaves
becomes a flame in itself.
And what is compelling
about the musk of this star
is how his gaze can enter into
my universe fondling hidden caves
when he heaves soft love;
raw as touches unbuttoning
my cellar...he conquers me.
A hundred whispers
drape me from the mounds
of my peak that burns like oil in me;
and I am gone, so delirious
into the beams of his arms.
Till the falling of evening,
when again he strokes his laughter
on my hair, to drift there on my trails,
like a winding branch dressing my
skin with songs of flowers waking
our glazed vows... he conquers me.
Greg Barden's The Poet's Fire Challenge
Submitted 9/22/2017
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Previously Written for Hotsy Totsy Contest
2/22/2015
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2015
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