There once was a ***** old sailor

Who's ship he began to abhore

The sails wouldn't budge

They moved like a sludge

Until a maid handed him an oar

Lightning strikes, the shock meets the skin, and burns.
The warm breeze follows, and calms the body.
Fingers grasp the sheets, she cries out and yearns,
a moan escapes her lips, a minuscule plea.

They say lightning never strikes twice; They're right...
it hits again and again, harder every time.
She want it though, to feel the lightning's bite,
because the kiss the follows is so sublime.

And when the storm is over, it lingers.
The pain. The pleasure. Still there, but mild.
Dull roar in her ears, sting in her fingers,
thoughts of the lightning can still drive her wild.

The sweet sorrow of the storm in her brain,
she loves the bitter ecstasy of pain.

The quill immerses into the inkwell,
and pulls out slowly, careful not to drip.
The hand trembles with excitement to spell,
it moves across the page with only the tip.

The author breathes deep, the muse speaks softly,
words come easily, flowing like water.
The muse commands, the scribe follows blindly.
The words appear faster, the hand a blur.

A smile plays at her lips, her breath catches.
The ink like a tattoo, leaves a dark trail.
Faster, her hand, Fire, leaves only ashes.
The muse completes the symphony, hands fail.

The quill falls, the author breathes out a sigh.
The black spreads. This writing can satisfy.