My mind made to  quiver, nerve endings shiver.
From the sliver of pleasure your lips deliver.

Legs go weak as I take a peak.
At the thing called fondness of your warmness.

Passion ablaze like the brightest of fashion.
Only to despair at the lack of air.

Apart our lips depart.
Her eyes so deep my heart takes a leap.

In conceit we decide to repeat.

No one sees in black and white nowadays,
their colors shade what their justice bade.

When big issues sway,
In discernment men say,
there are many a way,
all different and yet the same.

In the end this ones red is that ones orange,
our agreements a treason, to our own reason; bittersweet compromise.

True light is dispersed through the prism of mans view,
ones perspective paints a panorama with colors he knew.

This world is tainted in mans hues;
mixed, matched and arranged,
yet in it’s start one thing remains,
there are just two colors in this domain.

But where is this knowledge most look for in vain, unfiltered unbiased just simple and plain,
this image is mired in colors today.

One place, from just one place,
resounds these sounds, unbound for all around.
The feathery sound of the heavens can not escape,
as it’s notes crescendo to its highest peak.
No nor the deepest depths of despair its range,
as notes played so dreary, it escapes all theory.
Painted plains and the rolling hills,
mountains and the watery deep,
no love story, no loss too great,
for this wonderful instruments array, to portray.
A walk through a forest,
running through fields,
even outer space is touched with it’s grace.
Yes for every moment this masterpiece,
designed by magicians,
has just the right beat.
Although immobile it’s not ignoble,
yes the piano quite contrary, is not stationary.

Lust can pull like a must, when it hits like a gust it can bend our good trust, hence ending in dust.

From the start of time, fake love like a rhyme, can lead to crime and switch on a dime.

Test not thine hearts fleeting bleating, for fear it’s just repeating.

So abort your hearts corse before it can contort, all the retorts your mind exhorts.

Love the feeling oh so endearing.
Is thought mythical to the cynical.
When in abundance there is no redundance.
Enraptures all that our heart captures.
Sets ablaze the things in our gaze.
Freezes time and yet breezes bye.
In our ritual we desire it perpetual.
Reaching it’s full wraps the mind like wool.
Out of view still keeps it’s hue.
Distance means nothing to its existence.
When unraveled we have traveled.
Love portraying a dove, just like art will fill our heart.

When the ripples of the past mar the image of today, and the fragrance of a past bloom embitters a current aromas broadcast.
Then what could have been, that never happened, can be blamed on nostalgia and fervent contrast.
For a new bloom will never perfectly reflect the past, neglect not this seasons bloom, searching for that of the last.
The past although sensual is intangible, cling to the present knowing it could leave you just as fast.