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deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Promise of Night
Since our first meeting,
every day stands
alone unto itself,
a separate cause
for celebration.
The only purpose of dawns
are their promise of night.
In the death of each day,
our passions
boil over and
warm us in winter.
If not for the
coming of dawn,
the heat of my
furry trough would
burn us into the earth’s crust.
My love's face glows with
the approach of
a second boil.
Oh, the joy of it!
His eyes are teary as he looks away
from my unguarded form
toward the glow of
dawn’s approaching.
I feel the giddiness of a child
as his shaft hovers firm against the
kneading of my wrapped fingers.
We are small morsels of flesh
shuddering in our nakedness
on this unexplained
spinning planet.
Let us share this savory
cream that might be
creation’s purest gift.
every day stands
alone unto itself,
a separate cause
for celebration.
The only purpose of dawns
are their promise of night.
In the death of each day,
our passions
boil over and
warm us in winter.
If not for the
coming of dawn,
the heat of my
furry trough would
burn us into the earth’s crust.
My love's face glows with
the approach of
a second boil.
Oh, the joy of it!
His eyes are teary as he looks away
from my unguarded form
toward the glow of
dawn’s approaching.
I feel the giddiness of a child
as his shaft hovers firm against the
kneading of my wrapped fingers.
We are small morsels of flesh
shuddering in our nakedness
on this unexplained
spinning planet.
Let us share this savory
cream that might be
creation’s purest gift.
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