I dance in the fire
And never burn.
The flames
Roll off my skin.

Like in a dark room
He sees me.
Spinning like a ball of fire.

His breath, shallow.
His shirt, wet.
His eyes, red, with my image.

He stands and walks
Round flames.

But as he leans in for a kiss
He catches fire
And goes
From black to ash

I laugh
As I watch
The wind carry his ashes
Because, I never burn.

She is born of earth.
But the other rejects its own nature.

Her body Is a muse.
But the other has no breath of its own
To inspire.

She opens up
To the rays of the morning.
But the rising of the sun
Does not excite the latter.

She dances
With the whispers of the wind.
But stiff and stifled  
The other is not tickled.

But what of the soft perfume
That lends charm
To even the most common daisies?

What little charm the other has
Are fabricated
By the hands of man

This other
In the struggle
For a life not its own
Is perverted into paralysis
And paralyzed in pretense

She is The Lily of The Valley.
But you are a plastic flower.

I prefer the floor
Not the bed

For the bed
Is not a bed
But a mouth
With her tongue out
Calling me to rest
On her soft body

And only when she sees
That I am at ease
Does her mouth begin to close
But just as her sharp teeth
Are about to cut into me
I leap! And am caught
By the floor

I prefer the floor
Not the bed

Because the bed
Is not a bed
But a bed of wet sand
But not quite like a beach
Calling me to rest
On her soft body

And I sink smoothly
Into her embrace
But only when
I am just about out of breath
I leap! And am caught
By the floor

I much prefer the floor

I wait in the shade
Under the tree

A mango in my right
And my legs crossed

I wait with a song
And I sing along

With the birds
In the air
In the skies

With a smile
I wait, all laid in the grass

And with my hands
Behind my head

I wait to see his ashes
Be carried by the wind

Then I will know
His throne is mine