Phoe

Let the perfect bliss be writ,

Through the humble poet’s quill,

If my shaking hands should still,

And though I be quite dim of wit.

But where should such ode begin,

So lovely, in such countless ways,

That I would wax for untold days,

On each sublime detail within.

As is custom, first, the eyes,

Radiant as ever seen,

Commanding look, as from a queen,

Bid me serve all she decries.

Thou wouldst gaze with mouth agape,

Could I muster every nerve,

To describe proper every curve,

What comprise her fullest shape.

If thou urged and were I pressed,

Speak, would I, from deepest heart,

The finest of thy Maker’s art,

Contained within each lovely breast.

But lo, her best, most perfect gift,

The passion boils and writhes beneath,

Causes sword to leave its sheath,

And with my lusts, rise and lift.

Within the most exquisite shell,

Peaceful manner, Heaven’s grace,

Passion burns in passion’s place,

With such heat to rival Hell.

Taketh me, her lusts empowr’d,

Seizeth me with hands and mouth,

Journey traveled ever south,

Have me willingly devour’d.

Joined in sin’s delicious throes,

Such ecstasies as never felt,

To watch her body sway and melt,

Her voice e’er loud as pressure grows.

‘Til at last, we thrash and buck,

Beads of sweat from every pore,

Screaming, nay, demanding more,

What blessed fate! What perfect luck!

Finally, she doth hold my gaze,

Grinding me to deeper still,

Throws to wind her caution’s will,

Erupting in a screaming blaze.

Then, as quickly as she burned,

From the ashes doth she rise,

Lay on me with coos and sighs,

And smile, do I, for love’s returned.


© Jackson Cambridge, 2015.

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