Wednesday, March 12, 2014

post it.

the heat is buried deep within,
the noble mess of lovers sin.
the heavy weight of paper thin,
an ideal, painted, skin to skin.
a subtle silence stuck on two,
a neutral rope which ties but few.
the woven nest of those who queue,
a humble fight to win or loose.
a naked stroke of humid blush
a guiding hand, more than lust.

for the sphere that has a spout
a symbolic means to shape your doubt.

M .

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