Dashed with red lines,
Above your feeble lips,
Redness has clashed against the almighty
Of porcelain chin and nectar saliva.
It is the sort that drains,
From a serpent tongue.
You obeyed a man,
With whom you sought after denial,
To whom you’ve danced a longing night,
Many of them, with which you saw betterment,
If for but a while.
Am I cherished in your company?
There are dew droplets that run a tempest,
From your gleaming orbs as eyes.
A breast hangs freely from a collarbone,
A kiss hangs so sweetly from two embedded nostrils.
I am weary in my want,
Though, so dreary in this contempt.
Face me, dear child,
You, the woman to my form and emotion,
The face you are beholding,
Decked in exasperating smile,
And ruby lips melting wide open,
I fear for my coming touch.
To crack open,
Your smallest shell.
There is wine for a memory,
And kisses, aplenty.
There are roses for an aroma,
And great harmonies played vast.
In all we make,
By the cruelest of neglect,
There are shadows forming heavy on minds,
On my own,
The buried torment,
Comes as earnest.