deepundergroundpoetry.com

Persian, lilac moan.
While rain tapped against the window,
he meditated on the previous year,
and the geisha woman.
In a hanamachi in Kyoto,
he witnessed her.
She danced in a way
that prompted his sinful nature.
Things a geisha would never even think of doing in public.
But then, her eyes...
The way she glanced at him sent shivers down his spine.
Her graceful moves were as elegant as falling leaves.
As delicate as cherry blossoms in spring.
She wore the colors of Asagao, Kaneshon, and Ajisai on her kimono.
But in his fantasy, the colors fell off like rain,
onto a Persian rug.
he meditated on the previous year,
and the geisha woman.
In a hanamachi in Kyoto,
he witnessed her.
She danced in a way
that prompted his sinful nature.
Things a geisha would never even think of doing in public.
But then, her eyes...
The way she glanced at him sent shivers down his spine.
Her graceful moves were as elegant as falling leaves.
As delicate as cherry blossoms in spring.
She wore the colors of Asagao, Kaneshon, and Ajisai on her kimono.
But in his fantasy, the colors fell off like rain,
onto a Persian rug.
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