A Muse is Born
A muse born of faded paint and guitar hymns beneath the full moon light,
Taking flight, a butterfly spreads her wings in wanton disregard...
Beautifully taken, hesitating not...
Under lips that sear fire from a thousand suns into her flesh.
A muse is born of lust and love not perfectly formed, but perfectly felt...
The swelling tidal waves of sweet seduction, air sucked sharp into her quivering lungs,
Tongues dancing, lancing with their perfect rhythm over nipples and toes and “no’s” never spoken..
Inside, a crushing pride takes over and forgets the tender scars with each succession of silken heat.
A muse is born not of memories and heartaches still fresh from battle,
But from Alpha male bites upon inner thighs, glistening with sex and radiating heat that could melt even stone beneath it..
Sliding in the tender folds of lust, consumed by rapid fire catching the soul in its snare...
Screams, scratches, swears shouted into the trembling, cascading bliss.
A muse is born, as if patterned with the pleasure of a palate of the Gods,
Stretching languidly, sweet scents of pine and spring rain in the dampened forest consume her senses,
Consummated, stretched and worn, no longer torn at the seams or pleading for what can never be...
A muse is born, awakened in the beauty of the warm sunlight of dawn, seen from tangled sheets and twisting limbs and grins of days still yet to come.