| PASSION |
She’s dark, she passionate, and she’s
lovely,
but she doesn’t know herself:
She doesn’t know
the extent her smiling eyes
devastate this love-sick heart;
the way they dance in the moonlight,
subtly beckon,
and betray the depth
of her sultry passion.
She doesn’t know
the ecstasy of pleading moans
on a humid, Summer night, or
the maddening pleasure of glistening
bodies
entwined in erotic flight.
And
She doesn’t know
the hot breath of passion,
as it whispers between her thighs;
the gentle kiss, the sting of bliss,
the pain of pleasure
that burns inside.
She doesn’t know
the agony of lust
while suspended in endless time,
as she screams for sweet release,
while desperately, clingling to
the sweet sublime.
And
She doesn’t know
of frantic begging
for that of which she’s run,
of the animal that leaps inside of her,
as flowing chills
begin to come.
She doesn’t know
the embrace of madness
as her trembling loins
begin to spill;
She
doesn’t know of love,
but on this night,
her pleading eyes,
say she will.
Eric L. Wattree
lovely,
but she doesn’t know herself:
She doesn’t know
the extent her smiling eyes
devastate this love-sick heart;
the way they dance in the moonlight,
subtly beckon,
and betray the depth
of her sultry passion.
She doesn’t know
the ecstasy of pleading moans
on a humid, Summer night, or
the maddening pleasure of glistening
bodies
entwined in erotic flight.
And
She doesn’t know
the hot breath of passion,
as it whispers between her thighs;
the gentle kiss, the sting of bliss,
the pain of pleasure
that burns inside.
She doesn’t know
the agony of lust
while suspended in endless time,
as she screams for sweet release,
while desperately, clingling to
the sweet sublime.
And
She doesn’t know
of frantic begging
for that of which she’s run,
of the animal that leaps inside of her,
as flowing chills
begin to come.
She doesn’t know
the embrace of madness
as her trembling loins
begin to spill;
She
doesn’t know of love,
but on this night,
her pleading eyes,
say she will.
Eric L. Wattree
