Artisan,
Throw down those chapters,
Pick up your tools and come to me,
Bring regeneration of life,
With those neat, square-tipped fingers,
Rough yet smooth palms,
Shape me with your eyes,
Mould me to the form that you can see in your mind’s eye,
Surely you are the creator of this structure?
Whittle away at the sharpness,
Run your hands down the curves,
This is yours.
You own this.
I am your possession,
My physical being and spiritual mind,
Given to you with grace,
For you to explore,
What is mine… is now also yours.
I do not call this submission,
For my goal is to dominate your head,
Your bed,
We are beginning to understand each other,
You calm the quiet storms,
That rage inside my head.
Equal measures…
You may ask what you wish,
I will surely answer with my heart’s truth,
While pinning you down with gentle hands,
Breathing the essence from your neck,
Tasting sweet liquor from your mouth.
I will give you the words you deserve,
Scatter them over you as if they were rose petals,
Beautiful and fragile,
They may not always be remembered,
But they are beautiful,
A token of the fire that you have lit,
They ring true,
Like some shining, silvered tuning fork.
Our passion resonates,
Our energies rush and collide.
In my brooding,
A light begins to shine and highlight what you are,
You open me up like a book on a winter’s evening,
Handle me carefully,
Run your fingers over every word and phrase,
For it all comes together in the end,
Seek solace between these pages,
For they will open for you,
Read to me,
Tell me what you see,
This mind will memorise each small detail that you may miss…
I will pulse energy signals from my brain to yours,
Signalling for your return to my breast,
You will hear me.
You always do.
Throw down those chapters,
Pick up your tools and come to me,
Bring regeneration of life,
With those neat, square-tipped fingers,
Rough yet smooth palms,
Shape me with your eyes,
Mould me to the form that you can see in your mind’s eye,
Surely you are the creator of this structure?
Whittle away at the sharpness,
Run your hands down the curves,
This is yours.
You own this.
I am your possession,
My physical being and spiritual mind,
Given to you with grace,
For you to explore,
What is mine… is now also yours.
I do not call this submission,
For my goal is to dominate your head,
Your bed,
We are beginning to understand each other,
You calm the quiet storms,
That rage inside my head.
Equal measures…
You may ask what you wish,
I will surely answer with my heart’s truth,
While pinning you down with gentle hands,
Breathing the essence from your neck,
Tasting sweet liquor from your mouth.
I will give you the words you deserve,
Scatter them over you as if they were rose petals,
Beautiful and fragile,
They may not always be remembered,
But they are beautiful,
A token of the fire that you have lit,
They ring true,
Like some shining, silvered tuning fork.
Our passion resonates,
Our energies rush and collide.
In my brooding,
A light begins to shine and highlight what you are,
You open me up like a book on a winter’s evening,
Handle me carefully,
Run your fingers over every word and phrase,
For it all comes together in the end,
Seek solace between these pages,
For they will open for you,
Read to me,
Tell me what you see,
This mind will memorise each small detail that you may miss…
I will pulse energy signals from my brain to yours,
Signalling for your return to my breast,
You will hear me.
You always do.
