Stockings

Stockings.
They are to me what the Eiffel tower
is to France.
An elegant woman
a beauty,
a romance to find on every street corner,
an adventure to be discovered and sought.
Decadence pervades its corners and its twists and turns
as the night encapsulates deeds not seen
during the day.
All eyes look to the tower, shining.
As do mine to the sheer fabric
that rides over your toes, ankles, up calves
over knees, and thighs....ah to perhaps stop there
if we dare...
Yet some go further still,
Over buttocks and hips
to complete the curved picture all nicely framed.
Seams sometimes ride along her back plane
perhaps Cuban, Havana, Point, or the Manhattan
to name a few.
Whatever the style, all lines travel to that
same heavenly place where man presumes
to travel to get a better view.
I am partial to black, stopping just at mid-thigh
secured snugly with a nice laced garter.
But whether nude, or white, cream colored,
or villainous red.
A stocking, is a stocking, is a stocking my friend.
Try but once to not look upon the tower
as your eyes draw near.
Sooner cut out your eyes to cause the
brain to go against what nature intended.
Her form is a beacon to every breath that you breathe
Her form is a work of art artfully adorned.
Take a look, drink her in.
Smile inwardly, fall from her heights
and know with her and those
stockings you never stood a chance
of escape.