Every second it pounds.
Each pierces more vigorously than last.
Each with variations, yet, all to a similar tune.
A never-ending explosion.

And where the drinks to go rest,
feeling something so intangible stirring.
A whirlwind perhaps?
Or a circus at its peak performance,
overflowing with a vibrant attendance.

As adrenaline do, it comes,
everything altogether.
As I vision, through cracks of lost history
The touch of her largest *****.  

Her voice, the old fishermen would agree,
is like the sun racing the surface of a still ocean.

Her body, you are convinced,
the God in the heavens came,
and carved personally with perfection.

Her skin, so unaltered by age.
Greater than the finest linen.

Her soul, both frightening and free,
can tremble the knees of the most confident men.

With hands like those of old carpenters,
and a face the magazines of the times
would never feature, but,
O desire, O desire,
for her again,
I lack none of.