Liquid coals could not glow any brighter

Than her inner thighs, when she is caressed

So finely, nor a lover’s whispered words

Do more damage to a wavering heart

Than to reach her ears, through the tendrils of

The hair he spins like pure gold flax

In his seductive hands.

Her sighs are prayers, pleading for

His passion not to abate this night

Do not, she says, be waylaid by a trembling “oooh”

That might, in other quarters, be construed as doubt

(As she clings to coyness, that dismembering rope,

While minding not its slow unraveling).

His treacherous lips know where all the flames are kept

And in which onyx lockboxes, and their combinations

Are nothing serious to such a safecracker, whose nimble fingers

Spin the knobs with such lovely, lascivious intent.

But, when she lies at last supine,

Surrendering, she will be conquering too,

For in the folds of her

Hot regard, he will be encased

In that sweet velvet cell

To which, she knows, she holds the only key.

01/08/2003

Posted on 01/15/2003
Copyright © 2025 Ken Harnisch