Sensuality is said to be a sophistication
far too tasking to the tongues
of young poets.
Yearning,
d***fully lustful infatuation,
the condemnation of a c***** nation
that's lost its meaning of love.
And eager are the motions of meager made commotions
between sheets of silken bed;
lost words in spent breaths
sorting sweats across bare chests
are the pressed mouthes of nervousness.
So asked to bask in presence
of effervescent beckoning
is reckoning enough to a brain
lame compared to those aged,
but then,
to be writing of the hiding inexpense
of curvature?
I'm but an apprehensive amatuer,
begging assured mature enough
to speak of the rough enchantment
of your ravenous contours.
But a challenge accepted,
elected to a throne of difference:
substance versus sexuality,
extraction of hormones from reality.
Capable? Maybe.
For my sight has wandered upon
your boned mold unadulterous before.

Outside your mind lays skin, all shaped
in rightful place: A waist, narrowed
harrowed by staves of those incapable
artists called deities.
In light of this, those sculptors,
though only grasping but half-life
of the rife brightness of your eyes,
still size insurmountable to
the lacking beauty of every other.
In fact, the sighing smothers
of those jealous are but zealous
overbearers of insecurity.
Proved true by my warm heart-beating boundaries
in security of yours cold.
Your body is but the rotting corpse
of beauty.
not fleeting, but seeding,
spreading the final tangibilites
of art.
Above homely toes, legs, arose
pale like the snows of a purer time,
a sign,
from when dead skin wasn't the standard
and fairness wasn't absurd,
and you still manage the support
of heavenly rapport near pointed hips.
Fits, it seems,
to fill the seams
of those tightened denim jeans.
like an envenomed scence
of torturous affair aware of its seduction.
Conduction of flow above to natality,
conception, but save all, a navel.
Raving all-wards with your breath;
a test of self-control
to prevent lips from resting upon it.
And around it are finger-tips,
as bitten as the nails upon them,
and smitten are the trails that they follow
in bitter-sweet sweeps across skin.
To hands, and arms, charmed
like clysmic schism of grace:
your busom where scent's laced
residing and chiding at the calling alure
of lust,
lest a greater man's attention be thine
breast, it is simply obsession with
material.
no ethereal place,
but a nodding reception
to the rest of your body,
being only a shell that you live in,
given, it is shelter from fallacy.
Because you're steady, and there,
with your brushes of hair
hanging teasingly above your shoulders,
connected to the beautiful boulder
that sits upon them.