Too early for the rose of yesteryear to wilt, its soft
pedals not yet dropping, caught with morning dew, this rose I press close to my
face, to absorb its sweet scent, to feel its tenderness against my lips, my
tongue, this precious thing from which I wisp the nectar of, if not love, then
as close to it as I can get, this rose that I spread before me, into which I plunge, headlong, thrusting myself
into its core where the real joy law, this day after the day when roses open
themselves and when real pleasure is dripping from me into it. I am the morning
dew, still longing for the night before, her scene cling to me as I press in,
we always wanted all there is to have, this rose, this nectar, this flavor of
joy
No comments:
Post a Comment