Eruption

Poem for my lover ~

A place of quiet rest. Everyone is sleeping but me during a.
Quiet winter’s eve
Tenderly I stroke your chest and run my hands along the
Edges, a Lover’s frame, a picture that holds your spirit in the silence,
And becomes a canvas for the kisses that I, drop along your
pretty rosebuds, and trail inside the mouth to your
Navel, until it is devoured by a
Tornado, and the picture of my love becomes the fission,
Embers going up in flames behind the window
To the tiny house on Grove Street buried in the
Icy mutton, and looking in, children play in old toboggans
But from afar they see an image, lit behind the
Snowy tide, a fireplace that looks directly into a picture filled by red and orange sunshine
A rosy thing demure and peaceful, the iconic house of
Love and hope but deep inside your barrel chest I find
The picture to my soul and stroke the flames of a
Beginning eruption.

Emerald ~
Dedicated to Boyd Allen ❤️