Making love is a poem… lost in the strident leaps of time- malleable, contour

engineered words that ask with kohl eyes, come hither nuances


Making poems is like love, soft caresses, crisp silent breaths in winter lips,

suede shoes and naked minds meandering like tongues in a forever kiss of

souls, rhymes astir in waltzing echoes in corridors of light


This winter, in the whispering evenings, begins a mad poem, a lovers’ love, an

arpeggio, in a crescendo… the arrival of Calliope


But then, you came, my love, my butterscotch ice cream… my reverie is over!

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