Value of Silk

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Before us we see our bed.
Rectangles of softness covered by the fruit of a pest.
One never thought that we would come here,
coveting the strands of sweet threads
released by nature, pulled up by man.
So that we, lovers of skin and heat,
of moisture and passion,
can lie against it and slide to and fro.

Our bodies glide over the liquid,
that has been pooled together,
to make a sheet.
A sheet that we can tangle on,
become twisted with,
perhaps play out those tiny fantasies.

Sweat clings to us; to it.
We care not; we make do.
Moving together, each one clawing,
biting, the texture of the silk
no longer do we care.

Gone is our concern for its beauty.
Thrashing and loving, rolling over each other.
The crashing of waves as we give in.
Wasted money for a beauty fed from a tree,
pulled up by another, woven into a pattern.

So we can violate it with our passion
and leave it in a tangled mess,
no longer caring.
Just lost,
now in the arms of each other.