Titillation

Should a poem come to rest

upon the crests of a heart,

or slip lower instead

to rouse a fleshly part?

Should it robe itself in meaning,

layered slow and sweet,

or burn a naked flame,

awakening raw heat?

It’s up to the poem, 

what she chooses to pursue;

Mistress of her own intent,

she’ll stir the potion she’ll  brew.

And unto her is given power

to kindle or ignite;

To fill a mind with a glow,

or turn it to an alley

festooned with red light.

The prudent poem knows

a touch of meaning often lasts;

While words that start a blaze

As ashes may litter the past.

For the heart preserves the beauty

of the treasures it begets;

But flesh devours the moment

and swiftly, it forgets.

Author's Note

A thought.

Reviews

[Vol]

BuzzyBee,
I love this poem! You rarely see a truly fresh take on a worn-out subject, but this brings new delights to my overwrought imagination. I'm old, been married more than once, and had a lover here and there along the way. I never made love that was not like starting a fire but, "But flesh devours the moment, and swiftly does it forget." But there were those times when I paid special attention, and can still today "slip lower instead,to rouse a fleshly part" in vivid detail because she was perfect, and how could I not?
Vol

and swiftly, it forgets

[BuzzyB]

I love it when my poem can touch a heart. Love can touch both the heart and flesh. I love your message. Thank you.