‘Neath A Tarnished Sun

23 Aug

It was not but golden air
when I last felt sun on my back,
squandered upon the ground
as a sea of untamed hands
weighing me down, helpless;
not undressed, nor as bared,
but unmade to tarnished sunlight,
and it wrecked me upon the sky
like a fugitive of summer,
yet it was not golden air
when I last tasted her lips;
where she had met my hand
far into that summer sun,
and had shamed its warmth
with that of her own,
tho’ it was not until
her lips were but parched
from my stealth approach,
did I then sustain her breath,
and she, mine, a while away;
in our unfettered moment,
we walked again, along,
amid the brashness of light,
untouched by the winds,
yet were fully undone
by mere breezes at our feet;
where sweet morning dew
had gathered and cooled,
while soft in the shade,
we danced thru’ wicked thistles,
only to find home again
in the open eye of the sun;
where again we walked on,
despite absence of golden air.

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Posted by on August 23, 2016 in My Poetry



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