Wound


Your hair swam through my hands slipping.

A fragrance rose.

Open.

Like never before.


New trails of undreamed comfort,

walked naked for the day.

Fresh body taut with pleasure,

lay head back in thick darkness.


Touch.

Push.

Curl.

All senses extended.


Rushed toward the end of more,

filling deep hungry memories.

Each dry brittle pore,

taking every drop.


More than given,

each secret beat pulled away,

felt and eaten.

Never enough to stop.


Tossing.

Fleeing.

Holding.

All methods commanded.


Toyed by excess,

dismissed by selfishness.

Left,

with pieces.


Your misted dream lifted,

stretched and split away.

Shiny clear light,

awakened the horizon.


I fought and twisted,

surrounding like fog.

Shaking fear and violence,

dancing jagged steps of grief.


Your road was open.

Away.

Brutality was last.

Shame slid over like a fever.


Time was taken,

to make my changes.

Humility's core opened

to the light.


I remember your swimming hair,

A fragrance rose.

Open.


© 2003 - Mark Hebard

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