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The Maker of Idols
HANDS
palms rough
nail beds stained
in dark of night
workin' mans hands
they become soft, tender
such contrast, his hands on me
on my soft curves, on silky skin
molding into shapes pleasing to him
meant only for him, I'm adored, worshiped
the late hour of abandon, passion, love
my body so like moldable clay
He, the maker of his desire
these longings, secrets he hides
in the light of day, dawn
when eyes again see
his touch is gone
I love him
for his
HANDS
Copyright ©
Crystol Woods
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