"originating" poems
Oh black negus. Why do you hate me so much?
Noticed I called you by your rightful title.
Negus
King, Ruler, Emperor
Not ***** or ******
The derogatory term originating from the crackers, or ***** the mild disparagement softened by society made to think that it's acceptable.
But anyway let's get back to it.
Why do you hate me?
Is it because of my full lips or my round hips?
My low tolerance for ********
The way that my stretch marks are engraved in my skin?
Or how the roots of my hair aren't so thin.
Is it my naturally sun kissed skin? Even toned complexion?
It just can't be my uncanny resemblance to Isis the Egyptian Goddess!
So why not praise me for my natural features
Why go on one knee for their paid for enhancements
Should I react like Angela Basset in Waiting to Exhale?
Screaming and shouting while my face is growing pale.
But pardon my melanin
I was perplexed by this darkness that stared at me in the mirror
That stared at me looking in my lovers eyes and taunted me
Smiles behind hidden hate they constantly berate my beauty
But pardon my melanin
My superiority is in my melanin
Encased in my skeleton
Our ancestors wouldn't like this
They would not be proud of that colorism that exist
They slander us for our features yet they list after it
This systematic thinking has our men slandering us but they won't admit
You continue to beat me down yet I am your mother.
I am the fruit of this nation.
But pardon my melanin
So I'll ask again
Why do you hate me?
We are carved in the same beauty and without each other we can't exist
I still remember the first day that we kissed but a few months later you left me for hailey in an unfortunate bliss
Melanin filled girls I am here to say
You are a queen never be afraid to be seen
The brother that disrespect and degrade are absolutely absurd!
You are not ratchet bitter or mean
Youre a stunning melanin queen
So pardon my melanin?
Naw enlightened by me melanin.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 1:02 AM UTC
If (WO)men are the ones that suffer an exacerbated amount
Of the violence, the **** the abuse, and everything that comes
with and from struggle and alienation;
it is because of their femininity that men at times
have come to believe that their contributions soften institutions.
That at times throughout history neither capitalism, neoliberalism nor revolutionary experiments like that of Cuba have placed femininity as compatible
with progress or resolution.
In which case femininity must be hidden, silenced, or displaced with no purpose or place to belong.
Thus everyone closely associated with this femininity such as homosexuals, transgendered (WO)men, and "effeminate" males, (ignoring, subverting and negating the lesbian identity because of their gender) have come to be marginalized by a structural system of exclusion.
(WO)men carrying the highest burden for originating the associative distinction
Homosexuals battling to find love by constantly having to assert their masculinity
Transgendered (Wo)men afraid of expressing their through identity.
Lesbians fighting to legitimize their own identity separate from the directives ascribed onto them by virtue of being born women.
Males who are labeled effeminate because of their sympathy toward those who struggle and are alienated.
And every other individual who refuses to deliver to give a marker to their identity and a degree to their femininity.
Hold fast in your femininity and embrace the rancor that society grants you
As a homosexual I speak with you brother and sister, not for you
Realize that our self-ascribed degrees of femininity and identity are as revolutionary and transformative, and thus necessary, as those of Che Guevara, Mohammed Ali, Harriet Tubman, or the Dali Lama.
That because we have decided to embrace our degrees of femininity, problematic to any movement, at one point or another, we have inadvertently decided to align our selves with those who are alienated the most by the systems in which they live.
So that in this way we must make our struggles deliberate and political. Let our degrees of femininity become legitimizing banners of solidarity for anyone who suffers in any corner of the world.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
<>
you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
Out on the road in the middle of the night,
I made my way with no one in sight.
Hugging all the tight corners and vrooming on the straights,
Burning tyre rubber at alarming rates.
Little did I know at that hour along the next turn,
There'd be another person.
With the wind in her hair and one of the most lovely face,
She rode her little pink vespa with amazing grace.
I happened to have crossed paths with her in a traffic rule breaking fashion,
A move I made with deadly precision.
Instantly she uttered that lovely swear word with a sweet loud tone,
******* she said, raising her middle finger alone.
Wrong I was and would've apologized if I could stop,
But in a hurry I was and a high speed it all to top.
Late that night, those stream of events ran through my head,
I pondered on it as I lay in bed.
Swear words! Instantly blurted in the spur of the moment,
Yet originating from the heart's deepest cavity and vent.
Pure to the core,
No hidden meaning they store.
Swear words may have been considered in appropriate and shunned in the world,
Yet they convey what a person feels most appropriately when they are hurled.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
May Day
Fertility way
Beltane honours life
A peak of Spring
Earth energies are most effective
Let it begin
All busting with potent fertility
The wheel of the year,
potential becomes conception
Nature is fair
Fire festival glare
Ireland celebrations
Feast of Beltane
Latter times,
Mary's day,
it was called in the rhymes,
they say
Bonfires marking,
the coming of Summer
Granting luck to people's livestock,
without mock
The first day in May Irish holiday
Beltane rituals,
counting young men and women,
picking blossoms in the woods,
lighting fires as the evening stood
Matches for marriages all good,
right there and then,
or Summer Autumn would be when
Medieval modern Europe holiday
Return of Spring observance
Probably originating anyway,
in ancient agricultural roots
Rituals and perseverance,
The Greeks and Romans,
held such festivals
People and their cattle,
would walk around bonfires,
and between rattle
Sometimes leaping over,
embers and flames
All households,
fires doused and re-lit
from the Beltane bonfire
Accompanied by a feast,
with some food and drink,
offered at least
May Day also called Worker's Day,
or International Worker's Day
Commemorating the historic,
struggles and gains made,
by workers,
and the labour movement,
reins without jerkers
In the United States and Canada lakes,
a similar observance known,
as Labor Day partakes on the first,
Monday of September not May
Beltane also sometimes,
goes by the Name May Day
This holiday strongly,
associated with Pagans,
they say,
for fertility come what May
The origins are in ancient play,
across the world this May Day
© 2022 Carol Natasha Diviney
May 1, 2022
May 1, 2022 at 5:45 AM UTC
The moment of impact.
For an instant, you can hear the silence.
You can’t even hear my breathing.
Everything bursts forth--
The red, sweet liquid originating from the same point
Bursts to encompass all.
Did you see it?
The moment its flesh was pierced with lead?
It’s only the particles suspended in
air
that you remember.
You never saw them touch earth.
You only saw them floating
As if above us all.
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 11:36 PM UTC
I let the sky be my tent tonight,
a sparkle-filled indigo field
like a Star Trek transporter.
I swirl the stars with my mind
as my body says, "Energize!".
My destination: points of light,
any one of which could be a hive
of beings living, working, playing
in a mirror of the musings originating
from the sleeping bag in which I lay.
Rolling over to feed my notebook,
a firefly insists on sharing my pen.
Among his friends gathered about my flashlight
is a dragonfly twisting and turning its head
in a display of 360 degree impossibility.
"Do it again!", say my wide eyes,
then I'm shushed by a distant Canis howl.
The trees carry its magic to me like
a powerful totem, making me wary,
reaffirming our instinctual similarities.
Relaxing, I smile goodnight to its echo,
shoo the Insecta from their little electric campfire,
and turn my face again to the Universe
while whispers from a nearby stream
provide a soundtrack to twinkling above.
Gentle air pulls its blanket over me,
while scent of earth and pine
send me dreaming of cosmic fireflies,
blinking their lullaby in rhythm
to the ecosystem powered by my heart.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
basic arithmetic in terms of punctuation, otherwise? simply the arithmetic of punctuation: what does (,) equal? what does (.) equal? what does (:) equal? what does (-) equal? what does (;) equal? come on, quick! quick! give me a number!
to think, is to not narrate,
much of what is regarded as
"thinking", simply becomes as art
of narration
that is sofa-bound, i.e. so comfortable
that it feels it has no inclination
toward the use of hands as ever
being idle, it simply replaces
hands with a tongue...
hence: idle speech,
hence political speech;
so if the "devil" has work for idle hands,
then "god" has work for the idle zunge
(tongue)...
but most people don't think,
because their thinkling is solely about
narrating,
their day-to-day...
and i appreciate this custom,
in the cognitive realm...
i really do...
how many jokes ushered into
the void of one's silence, neither whisphers,
nor hummings, nor whistling...
wiser still, essentially unchanged...
but heidegger's aphorism no. 285
really bothers me...
the reader looking into the narrator
given the existentialist inverted commas
(iberian inverted questioning
¿ ? that's the first step toward
an iberian existentialism)
said the third person,
with third party sources, the middle man,
the second person, and then the reader
of the writer's original testimony?
if northern existentialism (french / german...
the english were too reactionary, and
too easily bored by the continental drift)
encompasses the tool that's " "
then the iberian tool has to be the inverted
question mark, i.e. ¿ ?,
sitting comfortably? no? how about a wheelchair...
let me just break your legs and your spine.
but aphorism 285: "worldview",
"grounding", "configuring"...
i don't understand this allocation of ambiguity,
and an italic stress on da-sein / da-sein...
aren't all the three descriptive elements /
adjectives the purposive sentiments for
originating the concept of dasein?
i had to counter with an iberian existential tool...
after all i said, 'he said', "we said"...
it's a third party medium
of supposed ambiguity...
if there's a santa claus (satan's clause),
then there's pontius pilate's clause,
found in the existential tool of double-ditto " "
or as the english like to say: inverted commas;
or the ritual: of washing your hands clean
from passing the judgement...
they're citation marks to be honest, come on,
let's be pompous, they donned 19th top-hats
at ascot's horse races! who's fooling who?
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC
"Who am I, mother?
Who am I and what do I do?"
–Norman to his mother Norma, "Bates Motel"
And so it goes, a split self - the protagonist defending the darkness as
Bizarre murders satisfy obsessions of a mothers love, taking a
Chefs knife, stabbing victims to death.
Dualistic wars within, a helpless man whose mother taught him of the
"Evils of women," instilling her own moralities of their wickedness.
Fostering the antagonistic personality of his mother
Giving to his incomplete soul a sense of wholeness.
Hidden behind the boy next door innocence, a terrified man
Incarcerated; locked & bolted
Juddering with fear - promising to adhere - set free said to be "cured."
Kleptomania returns; unearthing bodies from their graves, stealing skulls; a comforting souvenir, as
Loving anyone meant destroying them also.
Multiple personalities dominate him
Norman Bates becomes Norma; his mothers persona, crawling into her skin
Originating from their very kiss, kick starting a timeless love affair
Paraphernalia of skins tanned, butchered conquests -keepsakes turned to art & now protecting an un
Quiet mind
Reasons pertaining to mental insanity
Sectioned to institutions
Taxidermy as a young boy fascinated his mind
Urges to **** & fill, feeding euphoric highs, & even
Vertigo.
Women thrilled him; their smell lingered on each garment he kept.
Xenos to himself; who, am I mother?
Youth denied, cried away
Zenith ended; his final resting place behind the bars of Mendona Mental Health Institution, 1984.
© Sia Jane
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
*The eyes of the luthier are fixated
on the degrading and poorly fitted Dejacques bridge,
a small piece of wood that arches
at the top of the damaged instrument -
a prized 18th century treasure
originating from Brescia, a city in Northern Italy.
With a napkin in hand lightly
soaked in an oily substance,
he unhooks the piece,
then takes a replacement bridge
perfectly fitted for it. He cracks a smile.
This viola d'amore has seen better days,
with usage and prolonged handling
wearing the value of the instrument down.
Only an expert can bring a worn-out bird
seeking its once gracious and hypnotic voice
back to life with care and precision.
This luthier is a* surgeon,
*a master at installing a sound-post replacement,
without gouging or harming
the quality of the instrument in the process.
This luthier is a* listener;
*as he retrieves and dusts off a case
filled with a spare set of strings,
he installs and finely tunes them
but never over the desired pitch.
Tense and crucial,
like the rising crescendo of a string quartet,
he strums the new strings for evidence of life,
listening to and directing the cry of each one,
like a composer.
This luthier is a* healer,
*repairing the cracks of the violin
by implementing a tactic he learned
on his many trips to Crawley, England,
where his teacher had once trained him;
by using cubic, wooden studs and small clamps,
he gains better control at closing the cracks just enough
to lace the opening with an adhesive
with little to no force or pressure.
This luthier is an* artist,
*repairing the instruments
that yearn for the sound of music,
their very raison d'être.
His string and wooden patients
scream in agony for healing and peace
with voices unheard to the people,
but deafening to him.
He leaves his signature on each new patient
as their once damaged and lifeless souls
dance to the tune of his work,
healing them, promising the advent
of a future performance.
Let them rejoice. Let the music soar once again.*
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
i like the communism acknowledged by ants
and terminites,
but that brothel bit where
we plagiarise lions
just to get islam?
**** that, let’s try again,
and again,
and again... until
the rhytms of the labrador and
the tricep conincide with a society
worth living in,
the utopia of my grandfather
i wished i lived in only compensated
by achilles and hercules...
imagine! only by achilles and hercules!
only by achilles and hercules!
hell with you!
hell with you for stealing that from me
and giving me the antionette john paul ii...
that gave me a statue and not a job -
endearing as the entering applause,
hell with you, discarded western of the jeans...
i'd go back to ukraine had
i claimed justice in a society that divided me
to make justice unclaimed and literature
for worth of being unclaimed...
had such society existed... the mongols
would have conquered it by simply yawning /
as opposed to mustard stink /
what? west's the best daddy's girl hello
boy dylan **** jim morrison?
you're ahead of yourself in the electra complication
with the decided cold war no.2 originating with the
kalashnikov & katyusha in pseudo-ottoman hands;
hell with you! stay middle class and un-fuckable!
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Is the line under
the signifier: a thing
not self-originating:
And the I that takes
a pleasure in watching
it identifies with the self
watching it happily identify
This representation of the
self in verbal and then
ideal form to be faster,
Faster, faster, because
Mommy is near and I have
wings and can ******
you with my bare hands
It's an understanding
in an unconventional way:
To say that the utterance
gives way to strength
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 11:53 PM UTC
create poetic Kosmos
there, red sun --
mereologize a green sun too
(you speak clear paradox to me)
for where identity's own space expands
time allows all forms
a selfhood c^2
color blind i blink at flashes of the light-tips' turning-spins,
which speak pre-lingually from you,
red-green sun, one you
--in your veins, explosive
substance-meanings weaved in nescience,
all-that-is-else that is guidance of the is,
searching, guiding
origins originating proto-wise
a brain of star-potential...
in trustful shine of seeing mind..
your changing knowledge
permanently scriptureless
and scripture-birthing
--honest propheteer from out of time,
claiming rightful throne-identity
with star-stuff sovereignty of all...
a sun from here will crown you just the same
again galactic numbers over,
yet also slave to speaking kingship all alone
.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 5:29 AM UTC
Every night from dusk until dawn
Fantasies of a promiscuous angel
Cradle my heart with great solace
Serenading me with salacious whispers
Originating from the world of the sexually elite
The delectable foundation of this woman's shape
Glided across the majestic incandescence of the moon
Her skin moon bathing in the marvelous afterglow
Her provocative body was like the tree of forbidden fruit
One could simply look but was never allowed touch
Deep inside I was desperately dying to taste
Of the nectarous heaven of her lustful treats
However I inhaled the aroma of her hypnotically ****** scent
For it was airborne and suckering me in with remarkable ease
Injecting me with an elixir of opulent passion and zealous elation
This charming woman gives me taboos of a cutting edge nature
Always leaving me upon my knees crawling back for more
Oh, foxy woman forever you may haunt my fantasies
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 4:43 AM UTC
Sins of the father,
Wrought perfection among the world,
In ways I feel farther,
From where the rest unfurled,
Colors are more vivid,
Life is now peak experience,
The people are livid,
But men will take chances,
Among rolling hills,
And steep cliffs,
Into the nine hells,
Just to procure these gifts,
To create the song of progress,
And sing it from their peaks,
Where parasites arrest,
But with knives and leeches the hosts will leak.
The sunlight warms our skin,
And generates life,
And blights are gems we force to glint,
The straightest of diamonds are forged in strife,
Cut in sharp language,
Originating in the furnace of others,
Whether in joy or anguish,
The culmination of lovers,
The poets of life,
The artists of death,
Photographers of honor,
And authors of theft,
The illustrators of ethics,
Profanity’s architects,
Gaia’s ventriloquists,
And the firstborn’s defects.
Formulated impressions have no need to advance,
The darkness of these times,
Warrant no more than slight glance,
If mimes have nothing to say,
We’ll burn the sky as they dance.
This is the letter home from the warrior,
And the drunken hubris of a poet,
The weathered steps of the courier,
And those he had met in his journey,
Whether or not they knew it.
Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
My bones were vibrating,
Grinding the bite out of my teeth.
My arms wrapped around my stomach
Tighter than a boa constrictor
Trying to stop the shaking
The vibrating
Originating in the pit of my hopeless stomach.
The churning black hole that could erupt at one twitch.
I ****** at the side of my finger,
Avoiding the nausia,
And avoiding the acid nipping at my tonsils.
Chewing away at my bouncing teeth.
My hunched back leaned against the brick,
Spine curved into my shoulders
Enclosing my frozen chest,
My nose threatening to fall off.
And at that time
I wanted to be anywhere
Just to
Get away
From
There.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
This body is imperfect and flawed,
originating from earthly dust;
it houses a spirit searching to find
the one, true God in which to trust.
To see myself as Yahweh does,
requires mustard seed of Faith's leap
and to take tangible action
since people know that "talk is cheap".
Separated unto holiness
to accomplish His Purpose and Plan
while sharing the Salvation Message
is the whole duty of man.
Expanding my personal growth
by a divine, refining process,
inspires a desire for betterment
and to expedite this "Work in Progress".
Author Notes:
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 6:50 AM UTC
I’ve been taken captive by an infinitely lasting quandary; my life.
Time has revealed to me the fallacious nature of my conception.
Every blemish, stain, transgression on this once innocent and immaculate vessel pervades into the red blood cells coursing through my veins.
A smoky haze has befallen me from the clouds above; I am shrouded in murk and obscurity.
I can no longer see my way out of delirium and oblivion seems imminent during this seemingly perpetual moment.
Flying high above the clouds, the Lord has seen my distress.
Tacit supplications have led me to rebirth; I plea for repentance; I beg to be cleansed of all iniquity.
The elements within me have been perfected all within a split second; darkness and tarnished blood become baptismal aqua
-I exist to edify-
From this moment on I am on this Earth to illuminate its confines with iridescence.
Flames of a pearly white composition surround my spirit and soul.
The ebony clouds originating from The Adversary can no longer encumber me from progressing along life’s winding road.
Butterflies enrapture me as I am lifted into the stratosphere; time stops for but a moment and I metamorphose into a spiritual being of the highest caliber.
I am an iridescent sphere that is shining brighter than the Sun.
Chemical reactions taking place within the confines of my soul spur my transformation.
I am a sacred parcel carrying the message of a brighter tomorrow.
The winds of change have just begun to brush gently against my shoulders.
As the lightning flashes off in the distance an overwhelming feeling of tranquility befalls a once ailing heart.
Though stars may fall; celestial bodies may be shaken; I will remain…
-In spirit-
By Iridescently Efflorescent
Aug 8, 2012
Aug 8, 2012 at 11:27 PM UTC
There is an originating plum
with tasty flesh, that teeth can't bare to hide,
all are cut in sections,
neatly assembled
ready for the scrum.
Set out on ingestion,
each thought kicked around,
they go in formation,
massive bodies closely bound.
There will be no agreement,
on bitter sweet,
there will only be the score,
we lost, we won,
we loved
the fight!
Tasty is the plum,
as it passed around...
http://www.robross.ca
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 11:04 PM UTC
Where your eyes view comfort, my eyes shy away in fear. Those fingertips you wish to lace with yours, as you lay dreaming on your aged duvet, are the embodiment of an age-old prison. Those fingers lacing mine like thick nylon rope laced through fingertips and wrists. Soft voice infused with poison constricting my body with the force of two angered hands closing around my neck. Harsh lips like fists against malleable skin, leaving ***** stains and marks of possession on a once-white canvas that has marred itself beyond recognition. Insincere words spilling from vacant hearts, swearing of a beauty neither can see, yet you consume the words like a holy salvation. What little comfort lies in a body created for the very intention of torture.
Come with me and seek comfort and love from the fabric from which we were created. The comfort of a universe that lies on your very fingertips. The particles in the center of my right thumb created in a deceased star whose light is just now visible to my eager eye, the atoms vibrating on my stark white scalp arriving on my body after travelling farther in the universe than any human eye has witnessed, the pounding molecules rushing through every inch of my body as a thick red liquid originating in the center of the universe (an unimaginably breath-taking home). These particles have touched surfaces the human mind has yet to dream of touching, yet they have chosen this surface- your body- to faithfully support before resuming their flurry of activity. A deeper love than that that can be provided by an insufficient human body.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 1:08 AM UTC
A Devil out of my old bones did grow.
Out of its eyes darkly a light grows old.
Set my flesh ablaze and shred my soul.
Dead already, my heart cries for death toll.
Chaos makes it crazy, demanding more decay.
Stricken free of the chains in which it was portrayed.
Black and blue are colors too, but the rainbow welcomes one.
Black strikes its brother, demanding in its place no one.
Praise the one who looks away and smirks.
Whispers shouted into its ears by the darkness in shadows lurks.
Burnt away, originating from the center,
rests the original master and entropy mentor.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
Perfect squares of light
I found you on the carpet
originating from dusty windows
This is the landscape of my brief
child-life as a kitten
A cat nap in the sun
Accompanied by:
Surreal consciousness
incomparable serenity
and a gross, halcyon laziness
I've yet to bear the weight of gender
or "finding yourself"
A feeling akin to jumping off a swing
or one to many stairs
Easy
And I feel
As though
I can live this moment
forever
But naturally,
the sun must pass (I land)
and the child is left in darkness
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 7:22 PM UTC
My psychic energies are energized , warm, and strong
Signaling waves of physical feeling, warmth of a beating heart felt, and ****** moves exchanged.
Though miles apart, we are physically and in soul, together.Real.
Our blood flows through our veins and we appear to each other as our bodies sweat and touch is fused and cannot be changed.
The lightening sounds as we make love over waves so real
Sensual rhythms so bold and understandably near
we fuse together.
Real love and the desire for one another satisfied
as the remote seduction pleasurably brings our bodies to wet and desired ******
Forever.
We long for our lives to become just as fused as our psychic bodies..
we know the attraction is here…
we both ****** under a huge yellow moon….
as destiny dictates the night of lust and also deep love
between two people from two far away places
Sweat draws full and near…
Our hearts begin to swoon….
as we celebrate our need and wanting for one another
in pure exotic form..
we are now physically and soulfully an art-form alike no other..
The ritual of the senses is a fire that rages on..
Until we return to our originating soul’s taken up places….
We know we never need to feel alone or deep in separation from our bodies..souls…and love..
For we can fly, at will, remotely to greet one another as our eyes
lock
as we enjoy admiring one another’s beauty and faces.
Oct 22, 2019
Oct 22, 2019 at 10:24 PM UTC