I wanted more, a grip of strength
with probing fingers bearing signals
of you who conquers all and me,
yet you were shy, and so afraid
to enter into uncharted territory,
where one might be consumed
by all-forbidden fires. It was said
that only lust could kill the meek.
So, we just lay, top of the morn
on that soft featherbed, and dwelled
on heated breaths of perspiration
in greed and guilt and total silence.
And fell so quickly victim to a slumber
that cradled both of us and gave us dreams,
to then awake our feather hands
and ready loins as if it all were only
gray smoke in golden mirrors from the past.
In which we happily immersed our hungry souls
to find a foreign land that was created
for you and me, with showers and small places
to hide and bide the time to a new high,
until the fragrance of our hot and molten lava
engulfed our spirits which had posed that night
as bodies of Eroticon, the ever-swollen river
where friendly fishes smiled and floated slowly by.