I am of woman’s elegance and

energy, enthralled, who ever she may be.

For she flushes through my thirsty bones

as long as she is twenty feet away or so.

Of course the closer that she is, the better

because then if I am blessed,

I could studiously caress her,

inspect her, accept her, then afterward if

need be, reject her.

But if she should only choose to sit before me

for a time or half a time and make herself unknown to me

still I know in wonder what more there is

because of her laugh I swallowed,

and her eyes and face I was so graced to inhale

then breathe out my heaving chest

a multi colored prism ray of light

that floats onto her lotion lathered legs

I touch without me reaching out my sin stained hands.

If ever I should be so lucky I’d like to 

taste and feel her slits and endless dripping dew,

all those parts she stores behind supposed chastity,

Victorian secrets laced with hints of rum and

flan, cinnamon and just enough of myrrh.

But if not and she were to keep my want of her I

tossed at her suppressed,

I am humbly but angrily content that

I was still enamored by all she is of

form and spirit, even from afar.

Lucky her that I am allured by her imploding volcanoes which

other men may ignorantly regard only as her dimples.

Revered, is her aging wrinkled forehead, those subtle

lines of wisdom that are a chosen place of rest for worries

which men have never been inspired of. 

Her sloping, melting breasts make me feel so loved if I become

her push up bra.

If I were to love her, she would still feel wanted,

lusted for and seduced; for to drink of this my madness,

is to thirst for her very own blood,

like a she-wolf that feverishly licks foreign blood

from an Eskimo’s dagger that was placed blade up in hard packed snow,

that realizes not until to late, it is her tongue

now sliced becoming a blood fountain for her thirst .  

I walk out among this Eden garden

where roses bloom in heartless reds

and daisies spring in bouncing glances

or where I may pick a row of blossoms that

I may make myself a scepter, for her a crown

though she would plant herself inside another’s dream.  And

there to among the fields are independent tulips

who wait for serendipity, where also chamomile frustrates

my sense of smell, as her wafting freshness liberates me

at the pouring out of her surrendered soul.

I could without a doubt say so much more

and have you surely know that I am but a slave of femme fatal;

Or I could have chosen not to say these words

at all; but I’d like for you to think

that I am not without passion;

for every season has a flower who captivates and colors this old soul.

Rarely though for more than just a season;

until a calla lily picked

becomes one and all to me, I’ll continue still

to water the variety of them.