Do


Fresh-fruited phrases his tongue drips,
Sugar-sweet juices from nectar's lips,
Pursing to tinge a complexion's
Blushing hue. Her passion's reflections
Focused on that spoken loudest, long
After echoes of honeyed words in song
Sound no more, actions...as libidinous
As his pledges were languid, impetuous
Fulfillment of lush dreams, (temerarious
Completely), reminiscences, not vicarious
Sweet talk...all were pigmentary pots,
She daubed, to splash her rosy spots.

Ardor's memory, worth ten thousand words
When replication nil, music's songbirds
Can not lyrics sing to steal her place,
Imagination finishes second, this race,
Approximation, in a handicapper's view,
A photo finish...the winner, still, is Do!
Overture to music, prologue to passion,
Musical conductors, somehow, must fashion,
Baton to the fore, urgent tempos' fire,
A crescendo attaining climactic desire!
Older her smolder, more fervent the heat,
Passion's deep fen is making her peat.


--H. Arlequin 


 

      

 


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