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Poetic Ramblings

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There's a surreal, sometimes sinister quality to your words that appeals to me,
especially where you use concrete imagery as in this last group,
reading them is like experiencing an unsettling dream,
like looking at painting by Dali.
 
A Pony Girl With No Name:

The man I love is big and strong
and when he saddles me
and sends me galloping along
the ground, I'm full of glee

saddle and girth, bridle and reins
fit on my naked flesh;
I'm full of joy for all my pains,
loving my equine mesh

or in a sulky he will ride
while I pull him before;
he tells me, 'move your worthless hide!
giddup, you lazy whore!'

bridle and bit pulling inside
my aching gob, I sweat
as he shouts 'faster!' So I ride
(while my cunt's getting wet!)

as well as pulling on the reins
he beats me with a whip
to add to all my many pains
as I try not to trip

and when my gallop's done at last
he spanks my arse - not hard -
says 'good girl! you raced really fast;
it's time for your reward'

and then my master, to my joy,
fucks me with manly force;
I love that I'm his living toy,
his loving lady horse!
 
Thank you again, eul.
 
And A Swelling​

​

little girl who aches​

an aching of which she has no ken, save​

an itch, and​

a swelling...​

quiet voice inside her head​

whispering​

as her blood seethes​

and piles of dirty panties​

one after another after another​

sticky and wet and filthed...​

and she aches in secret places​

blood, seething​

an ache of which she barely understands​

and the itch, which drives her​

mad​

and a swelling​

and quiet, soothing voice inside her head​

whispering...​

and piles of filthy panties​

dirty and wet and seething, one​

after another, after​

another​

aching til she cries​

and the itch, which drives her​

mad​

​
 
Hearing The Echo​

​

and she slowly turns and wonders​

the mystery of things, unsaid​

of secrets, bared in shadow​

and never, ever, pulled up into light​

as she putters round her place of resting​

here and, there, humming​

the echoes of words from far, far off, come​

and dining on them​

her body lightly oiled and gleaming by light of the fire​

that burns, ever, ever so low​

watching the curtains move and knowing the door is closed​

against the cold, cold night...​

​
 
For Payment Of Your Sins​

​

the bodies of your spawn, given​

divested of their covering​

and their suffering met in silence, as a gift to our union​

lampshades and pretty vests,​

leggings and skirts in which to dance​

your love turns the page, and the story grows;​

​

recompense for sins not borne away by prayer​

or pleadings in the still night air​

as you fall to your knees before your god​

your ears are given to him in piety, yet​

your mouthings lost, turned away and forgotten...​

​

and only the mob to help you in your search for payment of your sins​

as you're lifted to the gibbet, cradled in justice, filth and shame​

left only in the skirt of your mother, the leggings of your dreams​

and the story grows in the telling;​

​

carried away in the sin not washed away in prayer...​

your mewlings lost, put away and forgotten​

as you hang in silence before your god​

in the still night air, a gift to our union, dance, and​

​

suffer...​
 
zenwhips1 said:
And A Swelling​

​

little girl who aches​

an aching of which she has no ken, save​

an itch, and​

a swelling...​

quiet voice inside her head​

whispering​

as her blood seethes​

and piles of dirty panties​

one after another after another​

sticky and wet and filthed...​

and she aches in secret places​

blood, seething​

an ache of which she barely understands​

and the itch, which drives her​

mad​

and a swelling​

and quiet, soothing voice inside her head​

whispering...​

and piles of filthy panties​

dirty and wet and seething, one​

after another, after​

another​

aching til she cries​

and the itch, which drives her​

mad​

​
Click to expand...

A nice way to describe a form of torture that does not involve the use of tools but the inability to stop one's own body
 
Thank you and, precisely so... females shame themselves in this way much, much more than they would have anyone believe... because of course they have no choice in it. Which is the theme of that particular poem.
 
Calling Down The Clouds
​

a long and curious bridge which spans from then to now​

from now into the timelessness​

the piers were raised from your perfume​

and the struts from voices which fill your head,​

whispering...​

the sea from your timeless thighs which open and close,​

liquid, rolling, calling down the clouds to join the feast​

such a painting could never have the form you wanted,​

needed, or the magic for which you worked so hard​

your body covered in the colors your restlessness demanded​

the only recourse: keep painting, and hope your dreams were not so alone​

as the brush you held​

it's a curious bridge that spans from then to now​

from curious dreams to curious fear to the voices which fill your head,​

whispering...​

all liquid, all color, all calling down the clouds to feast​

and the canvas grows and forms and tells the tale of every lonely night​

when your thighs opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and​

closed​

body colored in the restlessness your dreams required, the only recourse:​

​

silence​

​



Safely In Love's Pocket


I saw you this morning... you did not see me. At first, I wasn’t sure, but then you turned and all at once, I fell deeply into the distant comfort of something we once had. But not anymore. Not anymore...

Where does love go when it dies? Is it as a cat, seeking some quiet, private place to draw its last breath? And if so, where is it interred... is there some quiet, private place I can go to visit and then mourn? Or perhaps not even to mourn but to, at least, mouth some few quiet, heartfelt things and then remember...

How can we know something so well, so completely, so intensely, only to watch it walk away... and of course pieces of us go with it; riding along, safely in love’s pocket, or tucked away in some small but cluttered bag. Ah, but there is the pain, there is the real agony of love’s leaving; pieces of us going away with it. I would rather those pieces died than to attach themselves to something of which I will know no more... that is the real heartache, I think; that pieces of us continue on, wandering the earth and heavens with something we can no longer touch, or feel.

Where does love go when it dies... to some quiet, private place to draw its last breath? Is there a grave somewhere, hidden from the bustle and the hurry and the aching of life’s pain? Is there a tiny piece of land with a well-cared-for lawn upon which I might lay flowers and my tears, and mouth some few, small, heartfelt things? Or must I be fated to merely ride along in secret, tucked away safely in love’s pocket or some small, private, well-cluttered bag...


I saw you this morning. You did not see me. I wasn’t sure, but then you turned and I fell deeply into the comfort of something we once had. But not anymore. Not anymore...



Where does love go...





Trapped, In Amber
​

no words will ever heal the rift between heart and mind,​

emotion and analysis​

the wick has burned down, drowned in a pool of molten wax​

asphyxia, in sublime communication with the mother of her suffering​

like you...​

taking what your breath doesn't need​

and running with it...​

and your blood runs, hot​

not unlike the molten wax, immersed in its own deliverance​

such a pretty little thing, the sparse and harrowed starling​

pretty beak and pretty wings, and pretty eyes and pretty feet​

forever​

scratch, scratch, scratching...​

a little wick, if, left to her own devices will forever burn down​

submerged in her liquid mother, until time cools, jells and hardens​

and then she is trapped, in amber, just like that ant from the Cenozoic Age​

yet the blood runs hot, not unlike​

the molten wax...​

like you​

asphyxia, in sublime communication with the mother of her suffering​

taking what your breath no longer needs​

and running with it...​

​

and her blood runs hot
​
 
Comes Knocking​


your scent comes in waves, floating​

musk, brimstone and lilac​

tiny ampoules of your sweat swell and burst​

penetrating...​

your body's flesh is hot and real​

vivid and glowing, frayed and torn​

the scent of you is strong in the wind​

comes knocking, insistent​

one could lose their way, following...​

your womb is soft and yields, inviting​

the gate is guarded by eyes of fire​

tongues of flame​

words of magma and,​

brimstone...​

hot and real, vivid and glowing​

torn and frayed​

penetrating​

one could lose their way...​

and eyes of fire​

magma​





Just Out Of Sight
​

vibrations stir memory, once lost, once found​

slipping between fingers, grasping in solitude, for want of better things​

and so the waters are stilled, the cloudless skies float past​

on their journey to other places which must remain secret​

there is no better way...​

​

and dreams, fulfilled, remain just out of sight​

just over the next hill, just beyond the range of hearing​

nether lips, swollen and hot, wet and lonely​

needful in hope, awaiting a sound of greeting...​

​

and so filled to bursting, hearts of solitude and stillness​

so in contrast of heated blood, so wary and lean​

suspect and shadowed, waiting on dawn...​

​

on their journey to other places which must remain dark​

unknown, hot and wet, lonely and needful...​

​

sweat-soaked and needful in hope...​

​

​

greeting





​

And Laced With Blood
​

gone with the years, tumbling down​

through eons and ages​

the beauty fades not with time​

calendar, silent witness to the changes which never come​

not a line nor a wrinkle nor a crevice to mar the perfect skin;​

unblemished...​

breasts, as pure cream, smooth and sweet​

pretty vulva, unchanging, fat and laced with blood​

pulsating down through centuries​

belly, soft, nurturing, sleek and ripened​

and only the eyes, aged​

old and wary, yet​

forgiving...​

sparkling in the hurried years, remembering​

fortress walls, turned to dust​

the sun retired, acquiescence to the moon,​

returning​

over and over and over​

the passion play plays out​

comings and goings...​

the beauty never fading​

breasts, as pure cream, smooth and sweet​

pretty vulva, unchanging, fat and laced with blood​

pulsating down through centuries​

belly, soft, nurturing, sleek and ripened​

and only the eyes, aged​

old and wary, yet​

remembering...​

walls to dust​

dust to brick​

brick to wall​

wall to dust​

over and over and over...​

the passion play plays out​

in her aged eyes​

fat and sleek, engorged with blood​

​

receptive​

​
 
Those Secrets Now
​

there are secrets in the skin of trees​

and the wings of butterflies​

on the tongues of little girls in supplication​

to the Monsters of Their Dreams...​

all wrapped in hope and sticky care​

timid winks and gingham​

Belgian lace and cookies...
​

and where are those secrets now?​

housed in mines from which no jewels breathe​

no rubies nor emeralds nor sapphires...
​

on their knees before God, new faces raised​

to the Monsters of Their Dreams...​

all wrapped in hope and sticky care​

timid winks and gingham​

Belgian lace and cookies​

and the wings of butterflies​

​

such is the secret skin of trees​





Blinded By The Moon
​

gathering all her worlds into herself​

every orifice, filled​

to bursting...​

with nary a nod or a blink at things that do not matter​

radiant and dizzy, blinded by the moon​

in silk and course cotton​

bleeding​

... in joy​

soaked in sweat, dressed in jasmine and vine​

oiled, naked, turned out to the night​

and never alone as she gorged herself...​

sleek and clean and ragged​

radiant, naked and oiled​

blinded by the moon​

gathering every speck of her tiny worlds into herself​

every hole, filled to bursting​

bleeding silk, bleeding cotton, and​

soaked in joy​

​

sweat​

​

radiant and dizzy​






Poems And Recitations​


in the imaginings of a curious mind there are lions and gazelles,​

quarks and balls of yarn,​

gulf streams and sand between one's toes...​

in the sudden stirring of a divine wind there are only those moments​

which lead us to the gates of something more​

of something so large yet so small it takes our breath away​

and gives us pause to remember the lessons we could never understand​

and make perfect sense of them...​

all those moments we danced under waterfalls of every color imaginable​

and soaked in the rhymes and reasons for which nothing made sense​

where every little thing was still​

each lark's song in unison with every butterfly's wingspan​

and every riddle, at long last made​

perfect sense...​

we are union, bluster, melody and butter​

mouthings and quiet and wonder​

poems and recitations and ideations​

and every color ever known...​

freedom to be caged, and bound to be free​

this is our world, and it never​

ever​

ends...​

union and bluster and words​

mouthings and quiet and butter​

in ever color ever known​

​

and it never​

ever​

​

ends




​
 
Once again, eulie, such encouragement and validation... and many thanks from this side to add a bit of balance.
 
That We Might Feed​


little things we've said and done,​

follow behind us, as starving sparrows,​

feeding on the crumbs of our words as they trail behind where we have tossed them down...​

yet we never see them,​

our eyes forward, focused on the lives we have not yet lived...​

oh how we wish we might spy them as they take wing,​

the fat, feathered bellies hanging low,​

going on ahead...​

would that we might feed ourselves in such a way,​

gorging on the words and deeds that keep us alive and soaring up​

into the ranging heavens...





And A Calling, Found
​

tugging thorns from worried flesh,​

aching​

a bleating, heard​

frothing from her lips, dripping down her chin​

excitation, and a calling,​

found​

at long last, peace, in knowing​

the wind blows, cold​

and her nipples respond to an arcane summons​

as do other parts, more hidden from view​

as she squirms and calls out to a still night, in blackness​

and quiet solitude​

how can this possibly be wrong​

an error, turned away by blind eyes which beg to see​

yet all still so very, very blank...​

and she swallows, resisting the urge to spit it up​

and so it warms her fat little belly and calms her in the torpid dawn​

when not a bird will sing or cricket chirp, it is only her, there​

alone with her thoughts, fears, joys and mumbled incantations​

and she squirms and laps with her tongue at the froth​

and gurgles​

resolute she will die before mouthing capricious protestations​

while the wind yet blows, so, so cold​

as nipples respond to an arcane summons​

connected by tiny threads to other parts, more hidden from view​

the quiet dawn, and solitude​

she questions how this could ever possibly​

be wrong...​

staring back from blind eyes which beg to see​

at long last, peace, in knowing​

gurgles





​

Mist As It Hovers
​

a warm, damp field in which to lay,​

dreaming​

soaking up the sky as it settles on her chest,​

tucking it safely between her cloudless thighs​

breathing...​

lost in the mist as it hovers, humming sweet, sweet tunes​

caressing her mind as it quickens and soothes​

naked flesh, aquiver​

breasts, belly and lips, vibrations​

keening in the thin, wet air​

soaking up what little heat is left​

as spells are whispered from far out in the woods​

copse upon copse upon copse​

as far as the eye can see​

they comfort, soothe and whisper...​

lost in the mist as it hovers​

caressing the soft, wet flesh​

little moans and tiny grunts​

lilts and airs and soft light​

grasping the heat as it strays​

quickens and soothes, whispers and spells,​

cast​

and copse upon copse upon copse​

tucked safely away between her her cloudless thighs​

breathing...​

keening in the thin, wet air​

breasts, belly and lips, aquiver​

gurgle and plead​

a quickening...​

​

​
 
Cream As It Bubbles
​

a gentle itch, as thick, warm, sticky cream bubbles and flows​

weals turn to roadmaps, marking the long road to completion​

sharpened nails, scratching, deeper and deeper til blood seeps​

and sweat blends with exertion, eyes almost closed in completion​

taking pause to breathe and then begin once more...​

listening to the curious gurgle of cream as it bubbles​

the wet, swollen flesh as it gently slaps together​

climbing to the top of creation​

cresting, only to fall, free and writhing​

down to beginnings​

that itch, swollen and wet, growing​

sharpened nails, scratch, scratch, scratching...​

weal turned to roadmaps, as the blood seeps down her thighs​

glistening in candlelight​

blending with the sweat and the warm, thick cream, bubbling​

taking pause to breathe, eyes almost closed,​

trembling in completion, climbing to the top of creation, only to fall​

free and writhing, sweat-soaked and covered in filth, pure and sweet and bubbling...​

down to beginnings​

that itch





Ever So Slowly​


piece by bloody piece, your body falls away​

pulled apart slowly by the fever of compulsion and violent​

need...​

behind closed door, the sound of your breathtaking cravings​

muted​

innocent eyes held from a panorama of ferocity, and​

the vista of your secretions as they pray for release...​

your eyes, wet with joy and tenderness​

watching the hands and intentions by which your soul is freed​

but only slowly, ever, ever so slowly​

this gift, given, the aura, painted on your skin​

crimson awakenings and curious delvings, deep​

and your eyes give thanks, as they pray​

for release...​

piece by bloody piece, you watch your breasts fall​

pulled apart by fever and monstrous need​

your belly spills behind closed door, the sound​

of innocence, corrupted, taken​

panorama of ferocity, spent​

and the wide, wide vista of your cravings as they pray​

for release...





Born Of A Winter's Moon​


cast down from the skies in deluge, slipping between the torrents,

dancing​

newborn, curious, a new creation,​

flowing​

born of the wind and the currents which pull you down​

pink and plump and covered in blood,

your lips, pursed and wet and craving to feed,​

starving...​

born of the storm, writhing​

wrinkled skin and tiny fingers, grasping​

at anything​

fat, soft little thighs, twisting as you fall,​

dancing​

born of a winter's moon, in deluge, slipping through the torrents,

singing​

lips, pursed and wet, craving to feed,​

starving for life​

newborn, curious, a new creation,​

flowing...​

gathering the world to your newness​

tasting, suckling, feeding,​

tingling, pink and covered in blood​

tiny lips, wet and swollen and fat, craving being filled​

singing...

​

feed



​

​
 
With Her Blood
​

turning slowly, half to full, in silent shade​

notes taken of a coming storm​

and quickly, let the ink run, left to driving rain​

why couldn't she simply say...​

but, ah, the written magic, papyrus​

quill and inkwell​

blended with her blood and secretions of an overheated soul​

this is how her words are bequeathed to a future​

where questions need answers and echoes of a past need no longer be hidden,​

rains...​

wash away the dust and grime of lives which need telling​

lips fail, but ink carries forward​

signs fail but papyrus leads the way out of shadow​

into moonlight of eyes yet to open​

this is how her passion is bequeathed​

of quill and inkwell,​

secretions of an overheated soul​

and questions seek answers in time yet unknown,​

unborn;​

a mystery...​

be not hidden,​

rains





Not Even The Furies​


her eyes, distant, frigid and​

far, far below​

as the sea slips by​

washing away the sins of every waking hour​

stirred and abandoned,​

blended with charm and uselessness​

manners and culpable negligence...​

there is more​

there​

sordid garden of fruit and forgotten seed​

vine and thorn, bile and rectitude​

alone in silence not even the Furies dare disturb...​

and something whispered in her ear​

subtle and true, a blanket of wholesome night-dreams​

for every waking hour​

stirred and abandoned​

blended with milk and cinnamon​

manners and menstrual blood​

til her cheeks are fat with it​

dripping and waxy and soft...​

there is more​

there​

rotted fruit and barren seed​

on her knees she prays to be set free​

from tedium and good manners...​

charm and culpable negligence​

wrapped in a blanket of wholesome night-dreams​

from her lips, flow​

incantations





And Its Melody
​

gossamer heartdance, spinnings and meltings​

cramped down and hushed, spread apart and well seasoned​

striving toward light; bleached and clean and polished​

primping the song and its melody​

stirrings, calling​

and meltings​

listen...​

winnowed, forgotten,​

on heartdance highways, spinning​

and melting, forgotten​

hush and listen​

cramped down and forgiven​

spread wide and seasoned, bleached and​

made clean... forgiven​

listen


​
 
zenwhips1 said:
Calling Down The Clouds
​

a long and curious bridge which spans from then to now​

from now into the timelessness​

the piers were raised from your perfume​

and the struts from voices which fill your head,​

whispering...​

the sea from your timeless thighs which open and close,​

liquid, rolling, calling down the clouds to join the feast​

such a painting could never have the form you wanted,​

needed, or the magic for which you worked so hard​

your body covered in the colors your restlessness demanded​

the only recourse: keep painting, and hope your dreams were not so alone​

as the brush you held​

it's a curious bridge that spans from then to now​

from curious dreams to curious fear to the voices which fill your head,​

whispering...​

all liquid, all color, all calling down the clouds to feast​

and the canvas grows and forms and tells the tale of every lonely night​

when your thighs opened and closed, opened and closed, opened and​

closed​

body colored in the restlessness your dreams required, the only recourse:​

​

silence​

​



Safely In Love's Pocket


I saw you this morning... you did not see me. At first, I wasn’t sure, but then you turned and all at once, I fell deeply into the distant comfort of something we once had. But not anymore. Not anymore...

Where does love go when it dies? Is it as a cat, seeking some quiet, private place to draw its last breath? And if so, where is it interred... is there some quiet, private place I can go to visit and then mourn? Or perhaps not even to mourn but to, at least, mouth some few quiet, heartfelt things and then remember...

How can we know something so well, so completely, so intensely, only to watch it walk away... and of course pieces of us go with it; riding along, safely in love’s pocket, or tucked away in some small but cluttered bag. Ah, but there is the pain, there is the real agony of love’s leaving; pieces of us going away with it. I would rather those pieces died than to attach themselves to something of which I will know no more... that is the real heartache, I think; that pieces of us continue on, wandering the earth and heavens with something we can no longer touch, or feel.

Where does love go when it dies... to some quiet, private place to draw its last breath? Is there a grave somewhere, hidden from the bustle and the hurry and the aching of life’s pain? Is there a tiny piece of land with a well-cared-for lawn upon which I might lay flowers and my tears, and mouth some few, small, heartfelt things? Or must I be fated to merely ride along in secret, tucked away safely in love’s pocket or some small, private, well-cluttered bag...


I saw you this morning. You did not see me. I wasn’t sure, but then you turned and I fell deeply into the comfort of something we once had. But not anymore. Not anymore...



Where does love go...





Trapped, In Amber
​

no words will ever heal the rift between heart and mind,​

emotion and analysis​

the wick has burned down, drowned in a pool of molten wax​

asphyxia, in sublime communication with the mother of her suffering​

like you...​

taking what your breath doesn't need​

and running with it...​

and your blood runs, hot​

not unlike the molten wax, immersed in its own deliverance​

such a pretty little thing, the sparse and harrowed starling​

pretty beak and pretty wings, and pretty eyes and pretty feet​

forever​

scratch, scratch, scratching...​

a little wick, if, left to her own devices will forever burn down​

submerged in her liquid mother, until time cools, jells and hardens​

and then she is trapped, in amber, just like that ant from the Cenozoic Age​

yet the blood runs hot, not unlike​

the molten wax...​

like you​

asphyxia, in sublime communication with the mother of her suffering​

taking what your breath no longer needs​

and running with it...​

​

and her blood runs hot
​
Click to expand...

With Calling Down the Clouds it seemed to me a new way to describe the way a woman dances on the cross. It creates such arousal and passion. Very well done :)
 
Well, thank you but I have to confess that poem was not intended to describe a female's journey on the cross. This one, however, certainly was:

Laden With The Gift​

​

she writhes, slowly, as if lifted up upon the currents​

hips dancing, rhythm​

as the sweat rolls down her thighs​

​

and the spikes, a gift to her​

sweet, terrored songs of love,​

possession​

her breath comes heavy, laden with pain and​

effort​

​

her gaze wanders off among the crowds who covet her nakedness and her​

agony...​

standing room only for the terminus;​

her last, most beautiful performance, there upon her tree​

​

she is in character, now​

suffragette for the torture of their eyes upon her​

and she dances as the ravens wheel and soar​

and the goosebumps on her hot, damp skin as she hears of their hunger​

and their need...​

​

laden with the gift, given her; the time upon her cross​

to grant that one, most secret wish​

naked and dancing,​

writhing and free​

​

suffering​

​

hips, rhythm​

as the sweat pours down her thighs​

and to her ears, the songs of spikes​

and love,​

​

possession​

​

among the crowds who covet her nakedness​

​

agony​

​

standing room only for her last, most beautiful performance​

there upon her tree​

the torture of their eyes upon her flesh​

as ravens wheel and soar​

hunger, and​

need​

​

writhing and free, she suffers​

​

blessed​

​

​
 
zenwhips1 said:
Comes Knocking​


your scent comes in waves, floating​

musk, brimstone and lilac​

tiny ampoules of your sweat swell and burst​

penetrating...​

your body's flesh is hot and real​

vivid and glowing, frayed and torn​

the scent of you is strong in the wind​

comes knocking, insistent​

one could lose their way, following...​

your womb is soft and yields, inviting​

the gate is guarded by eyes of fire​

tongues of flame​

words of magma and,​

brimstone...​

hot and real, vivid and glowing​

torn and frayed​

penetrating​

one could lose their way...​

and eyes of fire​

magma​





Just Out Of Sight
​

vibrations stir memory, once lost, once found​

slipping between fingers, grasping in solitude, for want of better things​

and so the waters are stilled, the cloudless skies float past​

on their journey to other places which must remain secret​

there is no better way...​

​

and dreams, fulfilled, remain just out of sight​

just over the next hill, just beyond the range of hearing​

nether lips, swollen and hot, wet and lonely​

needful in hope, awaiting a sound of greeting...​

​

and so filled to bursting, hearts of solitude and stillness​

so in contrast of heated blood, so wary and lean​

suspect and shadowed, waiting on dawn...​

​

on their journey to other places which must remain dark​

unknown, hot and wet, lonely and needful...​

​

sweat-soaked and needful in hope...​

​

​

greeting





​

And Laced With Blood
​

gone with the years, tumbling down​

through eons and ages​

the beauty fades not with time​

calendar, silent witness to the changes which never come​

not a line nor a wrinkle nor a crevice to mar the perfect skin;​

unblemished...​

breasts, as pure cream, smooth and sweet​

pretty vulva, unchanging, fat and laced with blood​

pulsating down through centuries​

belly, soft, nurturing, sleek and ripened​

and only the eyes, aged​

old and wary, yet​

forgiving...​

sparkling in the hurried years, remembering​

fortress walls, turned to dust​

the sun retired, acquiescence to the moon,​

returning​

over and over and over​

the passion play plays out​

comings and goings...​

the beauty never fading​

breasts, as pure cream, smooth and sweet​

pretty vulva, unchanging, fat and laced with blood​

pulsating down through centuries​

belly, soft, nurturing, sleek and ripened​

and only the eyes, aged​

old and wary, yet​

remembering...​

walls to dust​

dust to brick​

brick to wall​

wall to dust​

over and over and over...​

the passion play plays out​

in her aged eyes​

fat and sleek, engorged with blood​

​

receptive​

​
Click to expand...

Laced With Blood sounds like a lovely extended journey on a cross where a woman accepts her fate which gives her the will to bear the burden she has been given :)
 
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