Lydia

Lydia

There she floats,
brooding upon the surface
of the airwaves,
deep,
a convincing conveyor
of the spirits of the letters
of the writs.

And…
there she gloats,
aglow with the pride
of a prince’s bride;
dark of hide,
yet ablush.
Aflush
with innocence,

but…
there she bloats
at the mid-sec,
full of seed
and taut and turgid,
bursting with morning sickness
from a nightly thrust
that broke the moat
in the light of the moon,
she broke forth in moans
heavy with passion,
groans wild with joy,
sated.

There she notes
on the key of G,
spot-on,
Lydian her scales fall,
softer than the gentle wind
touches her hair,
her skin bare
in a bath of breves,
her quavers slur,
her contours quiver,
she cries a river.

There she wrote
on Mahogany’s Plateaus,
“I am a woman
who must be heard,”
and hear I must,
a blessing upon the banks
of my auditory canal,
her voice august,
a gust aptly animated,
pours into my soul
Tales
till midnight
shy of one hour.

Oops!
There she loaths.
In fear, me bolts.



3 thoughts on “Lydia” by Admin2 (@admin2)

  1. Nice job man, smooth and poetic as usual.

  2. @HemingBird, why don’t we chat privately?

    Hush Hush Newbie

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