Soft supple like a new babe’s bottom
the contours of your waist feels to my touch.
No sharp angle, no jutting sword
that springs out at you while you duel and jaunt
Round and shapely like a graceful pear
the curves of your hips call out to me in sight.
No box of secret, just a woman’s tale that wish-washes
when she walks seducing my eyes and the coils of my soul.
Strong and mighty like am amazon princesses,
the swift moves of your legs mesmerise the inner sanctum of my mind
No stilts of wood, just flesh and glory
that makes a manhood jolt as heels add to the magnificence of these two combined.
A marvel of the true world, a figure of 8,
the epitome of an hourglass slinking through time
to capture a life worth living, knowing and savouring
like expensive wine of a distinguished time.
I’m an accident waiting to happen…
I’m a bomb waiting to go off…
I’m a flower waiting to bloom…
I’m a babe waiting to be born…
…. for you to come around…
Another attempt at prose…
Walking down this lonely darkened road, a familiar pathway trodden down upon just a yonder ago. I see the signs that this road held last year, which led me down a future that I’ve made past with, home to battle scars and fear.
Looking closely into the signs I see and ponder, should I let them lead me where I was last, or should I stop to investigate the footprints in the sand. Should I inquire from the only soul in sight, a man that’s tall and dark, yet not dark as night.
Oh this familiar path, it haunts me, so much so that my nights are ever cruel. Every time I trudge along way of the dark, the cold, it mocks me with eerie taunts and I weep with reddened tears aloud.
Drawn in magnetism to the bleak end of the road, drenched in sudden solemn “Turn away”, my conscience calls. But the smog almost reels me in with mysterious songs and I hear the evil snickers of promises of being led to where I unduly belonged.
Alone, cold and reeled into the curious cloud of body made of my fears, with it all, down this path I’ll be led. Down it I shall be taken, even to my death bed. For this path, so cruel yet so close to my skin, has become the reason of my only sin.
Days pass by me, as I wonder my purpose in life, the cause for deeds done and the reasons why I have been alive. Almost scrupulous, near promiscuous, this is wrong I tell myself. I know it is, but where do I stop myself from being thus? When will the past remind me where I must draw the line? Sadly and slowly, I succumb to the emptiness that my heart has come to be. I alone will struggle through the depths of forgiveness, in myself I must find, the deeds of wrong and those of right that have passed with minutes passing. Even with forgiveness unto myself, my mind will not allow me desired sleep tonight.
I trudge along a path of no absolution, a desire that runs deep within. Carnal pleasures resound, these walls mimic its stories, but with depression it has bound me slave to cynicism and narcissism both. Shameful and with due penance by the Lord, I live in fear of judgment at the gates. I loathe the sinner rooted within me with purpose, dragging me to the evils that I possess. Letting the good die, writhing in pain and never in light. Darkness arrives, with determination and deceit. Power fills the senses, leaving the mind marred and broken in tears. The liar lies laden with gold, reaping triumphant jubilation, but alas the truth is buried six feet below. As the last light dies from within, smirks of truths untold lie on irritated lips. Spake it aloud cried my mind, or forever lie unjust, the world spins not on lies but painful lust.
To sit here, past the journey we have come, and to have watched it pass by, I wonder would our bond ever have lasted, forever or evermore if our personalities had not taken sides? But as time proceeds stronger we grow day in and day out, to become beings of desire and absolution bidding adieu to that of hunger and desolation.
With due regard of everything that has been, we have parted and parted we shall seem. For whatever our past held in part, tomorrow won’t see its light, the door has closed, the sheen has died.
I wish you luck, with memoirs of what we once were, may you prosper and may you achieve your plights. With honour shall we walk away heads held high. You and I were what we were but now never to be again, the end of us has come, the reaper waits by our sides.