It's a low whistle, for some it's a murmur, others feel it in the deep density of their bones. Where it comes from will always remain a mystery. You use it as you would use your hand to pick up a pen, never doubting it, you follow what it tells you.
It's intriguing, this wild free spirited being. The scars from wounds once unbearable, all healed to a perfect mark of a warrior. Eyes that are blessed by the color of Mother Earth, they see the life in things long forgotten and enables the need to be reborn. The touch of skin engulfs the surrounding mystery of unknown waters lying dormant as the dead sea. Fire flows deep in a beating heart, struck to life by the hands of God, woven into a being by the spirit itself.
The sheer gravitational pull of inviting lips as scarlet as the blood that flows through these veins, trapped in a moment of sweet surrender leaving only the heat of molten lava to pass over your weary skin, attracted to the raw primal senses awakening deep within, this unfamiliar feeling becomes an obsession.
Resistance gives you control for a moment but the heart of a stallion beats beneath a rib cage to keep it from running wild. To have yet never to hold, the heart wants what it wants...
Always to be seen yet fighting for a love that promises forever. Wanting to be needed but always avoiding to be wanted. Standing still just as a statue that was planted, waiting for the day to break free from the grips of reality.
Oh to be lost in oneself only to found in the truest most beautiful moment when a soul makes you whole.
No comments:
Post a Comment