The old stories
never die.
A new baby will be found
in the rushes...
A fresh coal between the lips,
another soul
commanded read.
The stories will go on
in other forms
for other audiences
huddled
lost and lonely
around their
digital campfires.

That moment.
Opening a new book,
or a lovers first disrobing...
So like Christmas day.

Some people
are simply devoid of dreams,
and so hate the dreamer.

My lust for you is carnivorous...
you bring out the animal in me.
I want to drink your moisture;
wallow in your body,
my face bathed between your thighs.
Licking my chops at the thought of you...
I pounce.

We are free.
Forever and always free.
No one owns you;
no mortal or divine...
no government or religion.
Life is free...
its survival that costs everything.

One door closes,
another opens...
morning sunlight
spooks the shadows.

On the altar of our bed;
a passion so intimate,
we barely speak.