by D.C. Quillan Stone
O thy poems supine thus the writhes
For then laze in our passionate maze
Stay instead on bed lustfully moored
In chamber staid, lovingly adorned
For a year and a hundred more
O thy roams align on satin sashays
Entangled arrays as mangled designs
No depravity inner our epical avidity
Such gravity, the stains, once forlorn
For a year and a hundred more
O the loam humid that forms fervid
The furrows per morn then morrows
Widening strides o’er thy full gems
Betwixt the thighs, upon the skin
To thine, a year and a hundred more
O all passionate strings taut within
Symphonies wrung as we commence
To manumit our souls to lucidly pair
Else to wit, akin brave, fair paramours
So the years in a hundred or more
O our rhythms same to lines of rimes
Tattoos into flesh by tines with hues
Wings of blues along turquoise tones
Breath hones breasts by Love reborn
Long in chamber-bed on wintry hour…
For a year and a hundred more
Note:
As published in my 7th book The Third Fall of Race Brook - A Poetic Novel & Poems for J.
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