Aug 13, 2012

Sun Dried Canvas

His masculinity roamed across my legs

The paint brush was his and I was his canvas

Where subtle streaks initiated

Releasing a gyration of pleasing pallets

And I prided myself on virginal skills

He was the artist and I the model

His figure stroked my ceiling and floors

Until all of my sides were soused colorful

With each soft caress, my walls trembled

Highlighting our erogenous moments

Like buckets of paint spontaneously thrown

Invading each open fold, displaying his etch

Like a curving sculpture, I posed for the stimulus

Tasting his scent in every twist, turn, and wiggle

We screeched a harmonious symphony

That searched for that eminent epitome

Moans that sputtered under the night sky

As orgasmic tears rolled from his back- from my eyes

Washing out another beautiful work of art

And my hope was to be in his unyielding arms

In every thrust I was the center of attention

Like a rapturous souvenir meant just for me

Evoking feelings of interior ecstasy

And I became his rhythmic watercolor until the sun dried


No comments:

Post a Comment