Song Of The Swan.


Swan Song.


I am breathless

as she sweeps
most figuratively
into my alloted space.


I tumble head over heels,
when she crosses

the other side of the room,
hips sway, her derierre shifts in time,
like a metronome, hypnotic I gaze
all other eyes glued like sleep dirt
on her entrance,

in her ardent march

through society.

The purr in perfection,
flawless like a

diamond in the flesh,
many faceted and splendid
beyond a fumbling

poets words.

Platinum hair, ruby lips,
cleavage worthy of 

getting into, in depth
eyes that would rouse
a two million year old

pharoh's wrap,
ancient linen rising

like a scepter.

Flawless skin,

perfect smile,
her voice a lilting harp,
strung in the key of Gee!

Her bare shoulders manuever
without touching

through the crowd,
lovely head nodding

at the guest,
long curvateous gams

flex as she tiptoes
to plant a kiss on
the luckiest man

in the room,
me, as I breathe

in her sweet nectar,
and wake up to the

scent of honeysuckles
freshly bloomed on

the bush outside

my  open window.

One small

pleasant bonus
in my imperfect world.



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