Eyes Of Poetry

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Eyes bright,
Intelligent eyes,
Eyes spiritually aware but also the passions that they bare.
There is innocence,
Also I know what is behind those young eyes,
I have been there before.

Her eyes have found me in the crowd,
She was looking and a man she has found.
She was pleased as I watched her walk-bye,
Golden skin in winter,
No tan lines I imagine,
In the summer tan lines deep,
To match her young cleavage sweet.

Her eyes say “write to me,
I read everything you have to say,
Compose a poem of you and I,
You are my older guy.”

Where to start with one as beautiful as you;
She is not short,
She is not too tall for me,
She is strong and lithe,
She prances when she runs
And when passions undone,
Passions a poet can keep.

You are like a dream that comes to me,
A dream reoccurring,
Sometimes I can’t wait to find my bed at night,
As you come to me in delight,
Belly to belly hot and sweaty.

Our eyes lock as she walks,
Hundreds in the crowd and she looked for me,
A deep breath she takes looking away,
Wishing not to be too obvious.
She might be 20,
She could be 27,
With passions I call from heaven
I am only writing this because her eyes have asked me.
It has happened before.

A girl that would be just a little older than you,
Funny how you think you’ve found the perfect mate,
Or she found you,
Regardless of the age and date.
Then in five months time,
Bitterness of life crashes down,
The physicians say,
They have done all they can do.
On her bed of death holding her hand,
The last words she said,
“I was born to love you.”

The knife goes deep,
The blade turns and twists,
The point has broken off next to the heart,
And yet the poet lives,
Just a bump trying to find harmony,
But always a beat out of sync.

Then my best of friends,
Here she is again?
Young eyes have found me in the crowd,
Her shadow lover would I be?
Her lover in silhouettes?
We run to each other every chance we get,
As she tests with misplaced verbiage.
“Don’t you think that I am too young for you?”
“No my love, you are not too young for me,
But I might be to old for thee.”

In shadows and silhouettes we love,
Every chance we have.
Her young eyes have searched and found me,
Out of hundreds in the crowd,
Eyes speaking
“Write me a poem if you please,
To know-- to show that someone really loves me.”

Her beauty is such she has her choice of boys,
But she looks for a man in the crowd for mutual understanding.
The craving within her breasts mixed with her loveliness,
The burning of her tanned belly metaphorically,
The smoldering in her velvet nest concealed,
At the end of long strong slender limbs,
Phantom kisses felt on her cygnet neck,
She is not sure what to do,
Because she has never had a man write to her eyes of poetry.

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