A Taste Of Crimson
©1993
Enter my dream with a scarlet rose,
Thorn of which bloodies your pursed lips;
Carmine passion stains your breast pocket,
White silk unbuttoned four from the collar.
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"I'm your's," you say, "A gift from the Heart,
For Life, till Death, for Love;
Each tear and smile, with all that I am,"
Standing six inches from my breath.
You let the rose fall into my hands.
I stare at your pierced lips,
Dying to kiss and ease the agony.
Thankfully, it's nobody's funeral.
Let me soothe your parting pain
And paint my own in your crimson
With Georgia's number 3 brush
And a toast of Sake.
You extend silk-tipped fingers
Tracing my features, save my mouth,
Along virgin eyebrows, cheeks and nose;
I dare lean into your touch so warm.
As you follow a pulsing vein
From my earlobe toward the heart,
My back softens, legs weaken, head falls back.
Heaven! I am your's!
How I want you! Need you!
Let me suck you dry,
Every ounce of your crimson passion,
And insodoing, release mine.
Let me kiss and make it better...before I awaken.
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