Your secret irresistible voice whispers in my ear.
When you are close enough for my mind to feel the heat
of your Sen-Sen scented breath the desire in me
rattles the bars of my mental confinement,
screaming like a simian in a circus cage.
Desire is replaced with unfathomable passion, longing,
the corpse past, the moment a bog of unformed sculptors clay.
Your hands will mold it, thumbs, fingers gouging, stroking
the flesh until it is what you want it to be.
There will be resistance, a denying of the inevitable.
That cloying thrill when your body barely touches mine,
the anticipation an ecstasy, the taking a sensual summit,
sucking at my soul, devouring it until your creation is finished.
Fired by passion, this ceramic investment of chelations awaits the
cast when again your secret irresistible voice whispers in my ear.
Copyright: 2009, Donald Harbour