I have walked the path unlooked for, am caught upon a web that has bound me head to foot. I struggled vainly against it yet to no avail am I freed of its grasp, so tight it has me as to suffocate a lesser person but freely do I breath the sweet air. I am its slave but free of will is my burden, my gift, my treasure. Not the brilliance of finely honed stone is it, nor of glittering works of metal that luster as the sun, or the gleam of the moon upon an eboned sky that shimmers with untold lights, to this I say nay, for it is more precious than that and more brightly does it shine. I am a man, a man am I that is both blessed and cursed. For this fragile heart of flesh and blood has been pierced by the thinly shaft of Eros’ quiver. On that day, that which was me of old had died, and in its place rising from the ashes like a phoenix a new man has come forth. A man that must gladly and willingly suffer its fate without regret, fear or remorse; and to be bound till the ending of time. Time and time that wheels upon itself over and under, to this is what love is and will be to me.
‘Neath the ethereal glow of light from the moon that shines through the opened window, your form glimmers softly, angelic, beatific. The hair, like gentle waves that laps against the midnight shore, undulates gingerly away from your face without fuss or regard, for each strand is like no other to that which is its neighbour.
The soft pink of your skin takes on an amber like essence as you slowly sway from your side. And on your back, arched like so, arm above you in a beckoning gesture, the sheet laying across the softness of your belly and below your bosom, causes me to gasp in anxious anticipation of what may come. Full ripe lips, I follow the line…to the neck and below that which is your mark of womanhood.
I reach out to touch, but dare not lest I wake your sleeping form. My fingers but linger for a little while, mere inches, less than so, close yet still too far. I dare. The weight of a down feather would be more than that which is my finger as it traces the contours, soft yet firm. My breathing shallows and quickens. As does yours, but the eyes remain closed. Do I see a hint of a smile?
Every breath a sigh, every movement of my hand a graceful dance, and your body is the stage. Your movements subtle, mine without grace. The rounded shoulder calls out to be touched. The supple arms long to be grasped. The smooth shapely line a work of art that pales to all of God’s work, how then can man’s feeble attempt compare? My eyes drink its full, but my heart is not sated.
The man is incomplete. My yearning grows, if only for a kiss from those soft, full, ripe lips that part slightly, the whites of the teeth a glimpse. I look away, as my heart beats to the rhythm of a drum: quick pace. I return, and there, prone, seductive, silently calling out, beckoning only a woman can, you look at me through half-slitted eyes, the mouth forms a small smile.
Were it not for your beauty, would I know God’s work. Were it not for your softness, would I know heaven. Were it not for your lips, would I taste the sweetness of honey. Were it not for eyes that beam brighter than the sun, would I know my soul.
These calloused hands, without hope have been justly given the right to feel the silkiness of hair so soft and yielding. To hold your graceful lithe form that not even the gods dare. These arms, strengthened through toil and hardship, tenderly and with utmost care lift you not like a child but that which must be worshipped.
A woman you are, unlike any other. Not the work of a master artisan can capture the essence of your like: the line of your shoulders, the curve of your breasts, the sweep of your hips, the gentle sloping of your thighs to your feet. These things I yearn, I long, I desire.
Without words, or thoughts, nor the slight movement of your hands do I know these, but I can see and hear all. Your breathing a song, your gestures a dance. When I touch you, the heavens cry out. When I kiss you, the passion moans. When I hold you, the world holds its breath. Entwined, we two are one. Entwined, we two know rapture. Entwined, an eternity is a drop in time. I, a man without hope, know…hope.
KMC Community Forums
You wrote more poems 
Those were sweet 
and very well written. Yay for Feanor 
Jul 8th, 2005 02:05 PM
wow Feanor, that was beautimos 
ANGEL ~*~
i didn't think you'd come here....
...that means you've read....my....YIKES!!!! 
