Poetry is the dress she always adorns herself,
the see-through floral patterns reveal her more-
than conceal, my eyes imbibe its aesthetics in the fraction-
of a moment and to tell the truth, they are thankful.
Poetic is her walk, her rhythmically swaying buttocks-
subtly speak by allusion of genetic possibilities vast;
in her movement's poetry my lineage would be safe.
Her lips part, the warmth, ruddy pout and perfect shape suggest
her sensual love making wound be both tender and swirling
like the poetic feeling, an image unleashes to overpower me to surrender.
Poetry makes its essence look like a fine silvery glint
in those deep eyes, that have a sensual droop in the eyelids.
Arrows straightly directed to my tender heart, from the bow of her chest
contrary to the normal, creates a cadence, poetic utmost !
She is, nothing but poetry in motion, rooted in beauty's repository,
that never will fully drain, even if the most she makes her own often.