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.