Sage Sweetwater bringing you the Upper Tier in lesbian erotica...
you met me at the trapper's cabin, the coyotes moved aside, they sensed you are a clay woman,
burlap homey buttery log inside, maple sap drips, waffled emotions eat at the bedroom door,
your turn-of-the-century curvaceous lines, terra cotta complexion, I no longer have to undress you with my cyber eyes, my hands run over your earthy shape, "Sage, my clay is buried beneath, if you hold clay in your hand while it is moist, it holds perfect the imprint of what you did... it's a memory of your action," you whisper, barely audible...and the sounds of silence bring tears to my eyes, your clay is as eternal as any substance on earth...embedded with my silent fingerprints...
I...
Copyright 6/10/2007 in the sounds of silence, Ms. Sage Sweetwater
A very nice work of thought, your poem places one within the very core of your expressions, a display that one can view and read into the molded clay of your...
Martin Powers wanted an ironing board for Christmas. Instead, he got . . . Matthew Kieler, a non-returnable gift, but a gift that kept on giving. A powerful tale of survival, compassion and unapologetic love in the time of AIDS.
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Great escapism into the mystical once again. Each read I do gets better and better.
George
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :D
Sandie Angel :o)
Thanks,
Dan
Chrissy
Eileen
A very nice work of thought, your poem places one within the very core of your expressions, a display that one can view and read into the molded clay of your...
.....Imprints.....
nice work.....Art Sun...