a poetic suggesting

as crumbs upon the ground,
the trail does
entice,
in the pattern,
the circle...
as the fingertip does make,
winding as the crook of the snake.
feel their presents upon your platter
of savory and of sweet,
so now, does it now drip?
such is the formation of desire,
like the crimson
found upon a bed of clover,
wrapping around the heart,
as she, the moon, waits for the evening's dark
along with the last call of today's lark.
known the designs of romance does a poet speak
destine is the rhythm his quill does seek.
the mystery as to a flower does unfold,
held in reverence,
as in the power of a treasure's gold.
once again, the strike of the ink filled quill,
an unleashing, a wisdom,
poignant adjectives that cause a thrill.
a melody played in a proper cadence
whispering, rustling into the trees
the listener now set into a trance,
the end of each note provides the pace,
now my finger upon you,
i do trace.