Primal Morning

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  • Passion

    Primal Morning

     

    The morning sun illuminates the shape beside you and it heightens your senses. Seemingly pleased with the beauty they have created; the dim-lit rays of sun brighten and soften as they glide over the delicate figure.  

    Faint colors draw you near, soft skin whispers and beckons you. Desire overwhelms as you caress the curves, and drink the gentle aroma of the body awakening beneath you. Mouths, hands and passion collide as heaving bodies devour.  Senses scream as moans escape. 

    As the daylight streams full and warm into the morning you lie still. 

    No thought, just breath.  

     

    You rise; your glance falls to the again slumbering body lit by the morning light. Momentarily a lover- again a stranger.

    A primal roar wells in your soul. Your strength quickens.

    You turn; push your shoulder headlong into the morning.

    You are gone

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Bluejeans’s Poems (2)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Tortured Einstein 0
    Primal Morning 0