I think we’re angels-
we don’t belong here-
they call folks like us artists
or throw meaningless terms
like “hopeless romantic” our way
because we scare them, still
I always question their motives
wondering if they’re not
simply jealous or sad and
I somehow feel bad
for them-never knowing
maybe our ancestors were aliens
bet my extraterrestrial granddaddy
would have been smitten
by the earth’s lovely maidens
our world’s most natural beauty
beckoning through the waterfalls…
especially you pretty pet
if you’re not the woman
that inspired the deep, down,
burning concept defining
forces of lust through rituals
to a fertility goddess,
surely, one never existed
I adore how you ravage me
like a loved-starved warrior woman
of the Amazon wrestling her prey
in the middle of a long, dark night
collapsing in primal exhaustion
until the sun tickles my eyes
that blink open to a sexy smile
as you give me soothing, submissive,
Geisha-girl music to wake by
holding you is like leaping
into all the best dreams ever
rolled into one
wonderful moment
and I don’t know how
to properly thank you…
I love you my breathtaking muse
and want to flaunt our poetry
on the mount of the lover’s cross
etched in the stoned escarpment
for all the world to see
and say, “those words
must have been carved to
some ancient culture’s
most sacred deity”Runnells, Iowa 2016
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