In late afternoon she swoons upon the little purple
She comes to me in late afternoon
scrubbed and clean
her face and hair moist like a flower
kissed by dew
I drape her in ivory
she becomes a curtain swaying
to the touch of my rod
threaded to silken despair
she falls to her kness
her face lost between my thighs
as the sky puts on her purple robe
my own desdemona slips
to the floor
spent and trembling
between my leather-sheathed legs
her collar tinkles
as I spill upon her flesh
all my
amor
Maria
Hola, darlings.
About Me
- Maria
- Female, late 30's. Writer. Artist. Collector of china and opulent fabric.
10 comments:
I love the use of color and the metaphor of the curtain and rod.
I wonder, though, if she is Desdemona, does that make you Othello or Iago? *inspects for a cloven hoof*
It's very nice indeed to see you posting again. :-)
Maria you are back... and this is beautiful. After a reflective and dormant summer(for me at least) hopefully there will be an autumn harvest.
No, it just makes me creative.
It has been a reflective summer
for many, myself included, and
I predict there will be an
autumn harvest, Wordcrafter.
This is beautiful! Its early in the morning, I am at work and it felt great to read poetry!
Thanks for the nice comments on my blog. Glad you're back.
A lovely way to take a break at work. Your most welcome, Dani.
"threaded to silken despair"
aren't we all?
chella
Wonderfully tender with a touch of the erotic, a delightful read!
oh beautiful,the simplicity gives aches!
Pristine, pulsating, passion!
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