Songstress

Her voice rouses me;
Unto daylight I awake.
Her enchanting voice is all I hear,
Humming some pleasant melody,
Singing through it tranquilly.
Her songs lull me into sleep,
Seducing me into dreams —
Dreams of her, dreams of only her.
And then her songs wake me again;
Her musical voice calls me back to life.
From my bed, from my room,
I step soundlessly out.
Through hallway, unto doorway,
I stand beneath the archway —
Watching her, watching only her.
Her kitchen is her orchestra;
Its arrangement is her symphony.
Her counters sparkle;
Her cabinets gleam;
Her pots and pans ring —
Unworthy diamonds that shimmer in her radiance.
Sizzling bacon and eggs are her chorus;
The humming waffle-maker maintains the bass.
Yet none can equal her;
Her song belittles them all —
Her voice that quells, her voice that livens.
Songstress and artist —
All the world is her canvas.
I cannot match her art;
I cannot attain her majesty.
Thus I stand and witness;
Thus I marvel and adore her.
She is my only heaven,
The only deity I will worship.
Her depthless eyes fall over me,
Stealing the rhythm from my heart;
Her smile rewrites my pulse.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” —
Blessed words too dear for my pathetic soul,
Just to know that she means them completely,
Her truth in every syllable.
She is my universe.
Her heels drum the tile floor,
Making her tower over me.
Flawless stockings adorn her mighty legs;
Their sheen offsets her intricate tattoos.
Her dress and apron hide the rest,
Everything that dwells underneath —
Her imperfectly perfect curves,
Her imperfectly perfect skin,
Her imperfectly perfect form.
An eternity I would spend
Exploring her every inch,
Relishing her every part.
Her arms I already know well,
Powerful and tireless as they are.
Her hands look delicate —
A great deception, I attest,
For my proofs tell her strength.
Auburn hair dances behind her shoulders,
A flaming wilderness to lose myself inside,
Inhaling the intoxication of her scent,
My face buried in the ocean of her tresses.
What sculptor could her visage improve?
What vainglorious painter would think
To change her everlasting beauty?
In her adamantine gaze I drown;
In the curvature of her lips I am bound.
Of her gentleness, nothing can be greater;
From her fury, there can be no shelter.
Water and Fire — she is both;
Of Heavens and Hells — she is all.
I am nothing without her love;
I am bettered by her wrath.
She comes to me in warmth;
Her transcendent kiss melts my cheek.
I blush; I cannot explain why.
She bids me get ready for the day,
To put on my clothes, to comb my hair,
And wash the “sleepies” from my eyes.
So I hasten to obey;
I follow her every command.
To do less, no boy should dare,
If he counts his own well-being with a care.
Hungrily I return to the breakfast table.
Entranced by her seamless motions,
I gawk as she leans and bends;
Her voluptuousness shows through —
A divine vision, all-consuming sight.
My pants grow instantly tighter
(You know where and why);
I dread she will find my offense.
Swiftly she approaches,
Bearing her meal-time gifts —
A plate of scrambled eggs,
Buttered and syruped waffles,
And thick-cut fried bacon.
Such delicious abundance she sets before me.
Mischievous gravity tugs at her neckline,
As she nears to pour my juice;
The splendor of her cleavage
Parades for my licentious view.
I strive to stifle a whimper;
I falter in the attempt,
And on me her glower descends,
Reading my secret thoughts.
Her wise hand reaches down
To inspect my masculine state;
When she feels my hardened condition,
It incites her fierce displeasure.
Her livid censure showers me,
From her scalding, scolding tongue.
Shame triples my weight.
Self-control I have none,
But she will surely teach me some.
She pulls her sturdy chair aside,
Away from the obstructions of the table,
And from my own chair I am removed,
Yanked out, unto my doom.
Where have my pants so suddenly gone?
They have retreated to my ankles,
Felled by her disciplinary coercion.
My humiliation put on display,
Half-naked I am left to stand,
But I do not stand for long.
Now she is seated;
Her legs are firmly set,
And I am bent promptly over them.
Her lap is ever my prison;
Her thighs are iron bars,
Unfailing cell of correction,
Righting my every wrong.
Her floral apron jails my stiff disgrace.
My limbs hang toward the floor;
My head hangs lower still.
My bare bottom becomes my new height.
Above us both, her wroth hand rises,
Aimed toward the ceiling, yet intended just for me.
And like an avalanche that hand soon plummets,
Smiting my defenseless rear hills.
Her former wondrous song is replaced by mine,
A disharmonious choir of spanks and sobs,
Joined by her intermittent rebukes.
The Fire she is now, transmitting through my rump,
While the Water pours from my eyes.
My pleas for mercy, my pleas for clemency,
They are but wasted words,
Unless my behavior reflects their worth.
I must do better;
I must be better.
She demands it,
And she is my life.
Her sharp hand makes a red palette of my buttocks;
The purposeful pain and heat fill me utterly.
I am helpless at her whim,
Shaped by her desire.
When I am good,
I am embraced by her love;
When I am bad,
I am punished by her love.
What more can my spirit need?
Time waits upon her hand;
Her arm is a chastising pendulum.
My rebounding nude derriere accumulates the minutes,
Numbering each sonorous stroke,
Until my naughtiness is repaid in full,
And the spanking at last subsides,
Though my remorse and soreness abide.
She sits me up on her knees,
And wipes away my tears;
Then hugs me to her bosom,
And shushes away my fears.
“I love you, sweetheart,” —
She tells me every day.
“I love you so very much,” —
It is all she needs to say.
In her arms, I am wholly at peace;
In her affection, my sorrows cease.
With my crying finally done,
With my misbehavior forgotten,
My pants return to their proper placement,
And I sit again in my own chair, gingerly.
She smiles as before,
Coaxing me to eat,
Before my breakfast gets cold.
I know that I can never deserve her,
Nor all that she is, nor all that she does.
Yet she loves me anyway,
And I will always love her too.