The Passion Of The Poet

The night is never ending,

but it goes so quickly.

There are fragments that are frozen,

the warmth of your desire,


just above my skin,

wild and wicked,

I am enchanted.

You are enchanting,

I am echoing the incantation,

that trips from your lips to my own,

charmed by the safety and sensuality of your arms,

their strength,

their urgency,

their hurried hunger for me.

I am cursed,

by how the night is endless rapture,

that never seems to last long enough.

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