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When Her Hands Were Roses

17 Mar

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When she was a garden,
flowing with yearning,
her will was a warrior,
unyielding to the wind;
in her hands, her heart,
offered freely to mine,
as wanton and wistful
as warm summer breezes
dancing o’er the clovers;
her sunlit eyes glistened,
her hands, as spring roses,
moved in the vibrant want
of but my slightest breath
to the weight of her flesh,
her lips spoke to my desire,
bared in her shy whispers;
if her heart were a cannon,
she would have burst thru’
the walls of my bedroom
with her implosive sighs,
and still rendered prowess
of her touch, as rose petals,
that left my heart waiting,
for without her soft hands
to trace the shape of need,
was I left to myself, undone;
e’en the sun, with blinding,
could not add warm to her,
nor match the fire she held;
that she was but wanton
of soothing summer caress,
in spite of her own heat,
her reverence for passion,
with a wave of her hands,
had she mastered its means;
and so, like roses of spring,
her hands laid soft upon me,
alive in warmth and wonder,
blossomed to hold my heart.

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3 Comments

Posted by on March 17, 2016 in My Poetry

 

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3 responses to “When Her Hands Were Roses

  1. Heartafire

    March 17, 2016 at 2:15 pm

    Daniel, I enjoy your poetry so much, it is outstanding and remarkable, bravo!

    Liked by 1 person

     

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