Thorns of Fornication

Daddy!” She cried as her danseuse twirled inside the walls of her jewelry box, “Please remove the thorns from my skirt hem and slippers!” The wilderness is silent of human touch, nebulous whispers of roaming spirits rustle through the trees mane, in the distance mating calls of wild-eyed Panthers linger, females dance in lurid seduction. Midnight beckons seclusion - deliriously, they remain free in an arena of unbridled passion, uninhibited, unaware, completely enslaved to its spell...they too love to be voyeurs. Who are those celestial immigrants dancing on the wisps of lit imitation to the lullabies of the heart? Why do they remain restless in their graves? Have the thorns of fornication pricked their precious fingers, staining the tulle curtains with the blood of disgrace? Once, I had a thorn in my ring finger and a dark Stranger came and removed it with His teeth, cleansing my wound with His tears and kisses.

The lady drags on her Master’s pipe and swallows the smoke of its slender erection into her lungs, just to taste the bequest of His tarriance, the price she’d pay to encircle His lap, in the form of a steamy phantom and worship His shins, exceeds all bullion in existence. If only He knew the treasure contained in her, the sky would play stage to the unveiling of His enigmatic fantasies and dreams.

How sorrowful that He’s captive in His sightlessness, in His ritualistic lifestyle of cotton consumption, forcing her to bestow her beautiful passions and essence upon a Man with a different quality of flesh. A Man whom imparts her His variant ardor and masculine infatuation, freely drifting in His canoe upon impulsive waters until the time arrives to depart with a lingual embrace. Woman to woman, the secret tale of feminine expectation is richly abundant in the spirit of Man, why does He abandon Himself? Perhaps one day, gardens will produce thornless roses...


~daria S. dawson
© 2000

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