as your tongue explores
the rise and fall of fleshy hills and valleys,
searching eagerly for the tender pink idol
that it has so often worshiped.
Sensuously lingua dances,
circling in pre-worship reverence,
gradually moving ever closer,
fodder for the fire that you nourish.
The fire you have so patiently tendered
swells, from simple flame to delirious inferno.
With a low moan you surrender,
paying homage to the icon before you.
The heat - searing as you lower your tongue,
placing it with gentle veneration
upon the small pink knoll,
your offering brings shudders of pleasure.
My hands seek out stability,
close upon double drifts of wrinkled sheets
as chills traverse slowly up my spine
before exploding like land mines.
The explosions... accompanied by torrential rains;
deluging this, your valley of sanctity;
quenching passions flame one more time.
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