i, Poetry

i, Woman pic 3

he took me to the point

of no return,

tore open my skirt,

ripped the panties

from my bodice

& dragged me

into the river deep

asking through a sensual man’s whir ~

 

                                         ‘how deep is your poetry?’

 

as spools of sodden moist

violated every center of my sanity

gripping the depth of my insanity,

utopia & euphoria

settled

in the holiest temple of my doom;

& there

did I occur to me

that poetry is in the eye

of the beholder

particularly

when I saw my legs

dangling over his bare shoulders;

but it was

in the harden thrusts

of his verses,

the orgasmic taunt

in his stanzas

had I realized the depth

of my own poetry

didn’t matter ~

 

orally

     anally

          vaginally

 

 

 

for I was Poetry

in itself

 

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