
in the circle of my fingers
the throb of your heart –
on the tips of your breasts
a sleek dolphin that i ride
slipping on love’s perspiring
tangled fingers become
the phallus
as folds of thighs
extend your vulva
and take me in: flesh and bone
circle of love’s up and down
libido’s to and fro
overextended
thru’ 300 tete-a-tete’s
with my pulse beating weak
as if i was mortally wounded
by black lances
on the southern hemisphere
shifting breasts of a mountain
in its initial storm of grinding
i’m falling into the abyss
of an odyssey’s last lap
of dire existence
in the circle of love’s expressions
when my mind assembles
shards of a shattered eros
however hard i try and fail –
lust is a ring of iron
made of wood.
indeed.
zoltanzelan
zjg-poetry’20.
in the circle of love’s expressions
the odyssey of a last lap of existence
offers to all the only escape.