Wednesday, March 18, 2009



She walks alone, sweet woman-child,
her sobs flow warm against the dark;
Her need is love, not merely passion,
a mighty fortress, her broken heart.

Quivering bodies, and breathless moans,
she remembers with great delight,
but the heat of love is the only flame,
her lusting soul craves late at night.

Hungry arms yearn for her shuddering body,
to embrace her tenderly with all their might,
shivering lips lust for her succulent passion,
as she cries out desperately into the night;
But only true love can quench the thirst
that burns red hot inside,
so she faces the pain, again and again,
and late at night she cries.

Masculine shadows of delusion and lust
caress their egos more than her pain,
for her convulsing body quivers
not for them, but for the fantasy
of a gentle and earnest man.

Thus, head held high, by light of day,
yet, mournful eyes, that do betray,
unspent love, a breaking heart,
and the fear of sobs, when day turns dark.

Eric L. Wattree

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