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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

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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