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Robert L. Martin

The Kiss

Beauty on a pedestal in the
crimson light with colors dancing,
heavens of poetic delight
and lovely rapture
coming alive and inching closer,
velvet hammers pounding inside me
like exotic drums from exotic isles,
rain forests bleeding,
unknown rhapsodies flowing out of
my rousing mind and frenzied skin,
unknown caverns of my heart
opening up and speaking in tomes,
composing rhapsodies on sight,
gazing at her beauty that belongs
to me so delicate and pure,
 
too delicate for my rugged fingers,
my nervous heart embodied,
my soiled hands upon her flesh,
my ravenous desire
to crush her lips with mine,
a kiss to let the doves fly,
to bring the heavens down
upon a flaming lightning bolt,
feeling it running up my spine
and back down to my feet,
 
a kiss loaded with fire,
a passion filled with salt and lust,
a taste of nectar in my mouth,
an unending desire
to swim with the currents,
to float up a waterfall,
to fly higher than the eagles,
higher than a drifting cloud,
then a lifting to the spatial beyond,
to stay there and never come back,
to love in the realm of love,
to kiss in its shadows
and feel the flesh of love
against my nervous flesh,
so exhilarating is that first kiss.

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