Poetry By
Erika Wilson
Published on: 4/24/2012
The Thing
I can't think of a thing. It really is most annoying. Perhaps it's a song I used to know how to sing, But now it's gone, Like a bird on the wing. Why can't I think of the thing? Here I sit, fingers idly tapping, Completely distracted, Unable to think of anything Except this one little thing I'm having trouble remembering. Where did it go, this thing? I should have tied it with string, Or put a collar on its neck With a little bell that would ring When I saw it, so then I would know That this was the thing. The thing I can't think of… Oh what was that thing?
Published on: 4/6/2010
Senses
Light absorbed, color reflected, how is it my eyes detected All the frequencies you emitted, the licentious liberties you permitted The moon and me; blinding beauty - bared for only us to see. Every sound you ever uttered, whispered, sighed, shouted, muttered, Each word worth a thousand pictures; a siren song of mellifluous mixtures I hear echoing endlessly - as a chambered shell sings of the sea. Analyzing a tantalizing trail of intoxicating perfume I inhale Swirling scents, experience through your intemperate incense, Aroma-roused memories - born upon a breeze. Fulsome flavor on my lips, laving my tongue with honeyed drips, Like a god could I exist on the ambrosial essence of your kiss; Savoring your torrid taste - feasting forever without haste. Silky skin tautly shivering, beneath my touch hotly quivering, Softly stroking, lightly lingering, familiar lines fondly fingering, Dissolve with calm caress - a thousand days' distress. All senses mingling, merging, mind and body singing, surging, Swept by tides beyond control, two selves sundered, once more whole; Souls melding sensuously - me in you in me, ceaselessly.
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