Beneath The Surface

Poetry can be an aphrodisiac.

Beneath The Surface

Your words spread

in pretty lines

across inert velum.

Their ethereal veins

carry the blood,

the very DNA,

of fairies and unicorns

and deep buried legend

where heroes cross

misty, wind swept moors

and life is lived

in front of an open log fire

in a cottage, deep

in the English countryside.

But when I scratch

at the surface, your ink

screams in pain.

Blue toxins are released

that overwhelm me

to wrap you warm

in caring arms

and carry you

to the safety

of true love.

 

17/09/17