Tuesday, December 11, 2012

On Love of Love

When asked to name a single love I'm lost in the cacophony
of voices shouting "me, me, me! Name me, lest I lament!"
That list could take a hundred reams of ponderous soliloquy
so one in rhyme in this short time, will stand to represent.

A book re voiced by candle light while fragrant steam surrounds her face
Her legs massaged by beads of oil that mingle in her sultry bath
Myself, her valet on command, the keeper of her silks and lace;
yet more her bard, her jester, and the groomer of her wayward path

A poem by Frost, or of my hand; (she humors me though I'm unknown)
it's less the content, more the tone, that sets her onto peaceful shores
That I've been blessed within this muse, to pleasure by my words alone
is love unto itself I think, a faceless gift that is; no more.

For without words I'd have no chance, a man of generations past,
to give an ounce of love aloud; as softness is despised by most.
But still it cries to be set free, this need to share what will not last
a moments joy, a thought of peace, a shelt'ring touch, a well earned toast

So what you ask would be one love that fascinates this odd old man?
The fact that I still can my dear, I'm just amazed I can.

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