poetry

Your windows on my soul

Your eyes are windows on my

soul: old though it is; older though they are.

And age is perceived by

those who wish to see their death [ap-

{re-

proach]}

that much sooner than May

herds its fragrant blooms across

summer month to

August-time of hay.

And your eyes deepen even more than my soul ever

could: in your eyes I see reflecting my much better

self: and only when I look inside your body,

and touch the juices of your wants, and realise

these wants do include the being that is me,

and then I touch the innermost movement

of your joyous wanton clockwork, as you shout out in

glorious pleasured treasured moments which

mean so much ecstasy: you are my

drug, after all,

dear love.

 

And am I yours, too?

Your drug … and your love?

 

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