deepundergroundpoetry.com
PRIVILEGED OBSERVER
It’s the mundane rituals
that most deserve verse.
The quotidian routines,
building blocks of life.
Honored to be invited
to such an one.
Seated beside the vanity
gazing on her stunning face
in the mirror reflected.
.
Countenance serene.
Kind, shimmering hazel eyes
fixedly stare.
For glorious visions prepared.
Placid smile on pink lips formed.
Head tilted back,
eyes closed.
Like shaking an Etch-a-Sketch.
Fingertips playfully muss
long auburn strands.
Lifting a brush, a gift from long ago,
that eagerly sets to its nightly task.
Slowly gliding down
the burnished silk cataract.
Till ends splash
onto exquisite pearlescent shoulders.
Expression vacillates ‘tween ecstasy and pure contentment.
What images appear on her stage?
The bristles whispering as they go.
Perhaps evoking a loving mother’s brushing,
asking about her day
Or of a tender paramour
petting the downy, electric tendrils
on the back of her neck.
Now reclined on lover’s bed,
she on me astride.
Cascading hair my face caresses
With each undulation
She paints me into her scene
Brush work now intensifies
with each stroke we cry for joy
Our souls consumed by passion.
that most deserve verse.
The quotidian routines,
building blocks of life.
Honored to be invited
to such an one.
Seated beside the vanity
gazing on her stunning face
in the mirror reflected.
.
Countenance serene.
Kind, shimmering hazel eyes
fixedly stare.
For glorious visions prepared.
Placid smile on pink lips formed.
Head tilted back,
eyes closed.
Like shaking an Etch-a-Sketch.
Fingertips playfully muss
long auburn strands.
Lifting a brush, a gift from long ago,
that eagerly sets to its nightly task.
Slowly gliding down
the burnished silk cataract.
Till ends splash
onto exquisite pearlescent shoulders.
Expression vacillates ‘tween ecstasy and pure contentment.
What images appear on her stage?
The bristles whispering as they go.
Perhaps evoking a loving mother’s brushing,
asking about her day
Or of a tender paramour
petting the downy, electric tendrils
on the back of her neck.
Now reclined on lover’s bed,
she on me astride.
Cascading hair my face caresses
With each undulation
She paints me into her scene
Brush work now intensifies
with each stroke we cry for joy
Our souls consumed by passion.
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