your tongue ought to be illegal,
unfit for the faint of loving--
the way it flicks out sweet talk
all warm and sexalicious,
so presumptiously invading
the core of my canal

drumming the membrane
of my aural spot--
it makes me take it all in
so deeply, so ridiculously
deeply that i can't get
enough of your sultry stuff. . .

i can't help but let your syllables
take me over the river of smooth talk
and through the forest of pillow talk,
so come on down, preach on,
save my silent soul with
the baptism of fire--

how i long to be
the guardian of your decibels,
the chosen prophetess
who interprets the code
conceal'd beneath the ribbon
that is wrapp'd 'round parchments
of forbidden tantric scrolls.

© 2005 cynth’ya lewis reed. All rights reserved The Love Bank, as discussed on PowerTalkFM.com