Velvet night and obsidian bliss
Velvet touch, your biting kiss
Softly feel your breath upon my skin
An urgent begging, a withhold, a deep breath in
I listen as you whisper my name is surging sighs
I listen has you pant back needing cries
I look into the depths of your eyes…
Passion dripping, wrapped in velvet thighs
Feel your body against my fleshen soul
The caress, the touch, the overthrow…
Tongues that trace like silken lace
Fingers that slide with lustful grace
Stubble roughly on delicate homes
Sighs and trembles and lustful moans
Feel the pull of full restraint
Feel the push, the pause, the faint
Feel you hold back from losing all control
As I urge you to motion, smooth and slow
Feel the explosion of soul within soul
A need, a desire, a letting go
With deep paths of unheld lust
Eagerly meeting and matching thrust
Cushioning and grasping within a nestled place
I watch as you let go, your exquisite face
With a collision of stars, planets, a milky way thread of light
As your soul explodes with mine in the night
Feeling you fully undone to the center of your core
I feel the want, the need, all that plus so much more…
I feel myself fall and land into your embrace
A soft smile of love, on each of our love torn face.
Tag Archives: London
To the Master, Ben Jonson of England
Although perhaps everyone has heard the name Shakespeare, Not so many have heard of Jonson or of Donne–or of King, for that matter–It is a wonderful moment for most everyone when they do discover them. So I post a link to the above tribute to him, and an example below of one of his best known short poems. Such a lovely sentiment–both this original and the tribute.
To Celia
Drink to me only with thine eyes
And I will pledge with mine.
Or leave a kiss but in the cup
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much hon’ring thee
As giving it a hope that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me,
Since when it grows and smells, I swear
Not of itself, but thee.
Intro: ’84
1984
Perhaps it was premature,
But it’s still in store….
David Emeron: Sonnets 