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| The Heartbeat of a Storm by � coondogk9 Oui Madam mossele that the light shines in your lovely eyes sets my heart aglow as the fire rages inside my empty shell. Knowing you are taken only fuels the passion of my neglect and wants I shan�t ever have. The strolls I have taken with you on moonlit paths has formed a deepened trail back to my heart. Holding your hand beneath stars that twinkle only for us I touch your velvet lips with mine and feel the pain of emptiness fly away. Why the lifeless form of my pillow takes your shape in my arms is not magic but a blessing. The cool linen case heats with every beat of your distant heartbeat. The dial on the electric blanket flickers out as it hangs in limbo waiting the ice of winter chill to cool as droplets sizzle on my hot flesh. My fever now rampant surges to places unknown before as the combustion in my mind keeps it burning. Thoughts of your white skin flash before me as landmarks hesitate for my exploration. Like honey, smooth and sweet I taste the nectar in my dreams. The fragrant smell of Lilacs linger as you flower and the bud opens to reveal the fragile delicacy. The warm smooth road leads me on as I continue my journey over a beautiful landscape of desire. Tart deposits evaporate under my tongue as I cleanse the valley floor between the mountains of love. Their peaks rigid an proud,, caressed by my wants, guard flatlands and contours of natures beauty. Limbs like willows live through the touch of your fingertips. The silky Spanish moss once ambered by the sun now slightly greys with knowledge and more time to spend on personal satisfaction. The echoes of my whisper now hold my name as I hear it resound. The elasticity of our strength strains now as thunder peels and the waterfalls of our emotions crash upon the damp shore. We�ve been discovered by cupids arrows and the dial on my pulsing veins pushes the limit of mortality. Limbs shake and the flood plain is filled as the storm races through the night hours. Then the quiet after the howling moon briefly appeared. Only the aftershocks continue shortly bringing sweet relief to a bruised an battered land, a film of moisture blankets our past desire. Tributary�s trickle from the mountains forming pools in the valley and the peaks slowly soften their vigil. Stars dim their twinkling and clouds of peace cover their existence. Harsh winds become warm tropical hushed breezes and lips again smother muffled I love you�s. The Masked Writer � 2002 T Lovett |