beauty, love, poetry, sex, women

playing the game

Dust doesn’t have time

To settle on the board

Pieces moved too often

To allow for this to ossify

You are mine.

An object, a vessel of my desire

Yet you do not sit on a shelf,

Out of reach and almost out of sight

Stared at until the attention

Causes hairline cracks in the subtle play

Of your spirit

No, you sit in my hands,

Used and given meaning in the use,

Taken with such slow grace

Ravished as the want makes me rapacious,

You, ache and push towards each stab

Of my warm, soft lips

My attention is subject to my own approval

Purpose given room to develop

A will reinforced by circumstance and decision

But I sit at the board,

Pay attention at the moves we make

With one another

We will play

Dance to break down hierarchies

Rebuild them in the loving heat

Of our invention

Advertisements
Standard

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

w

Connecting to %s