Non-Erotic PoetryWaterby the beauty of raven hair
bent over the black lake
streaming down her white back
like tear clouds
flowing over a mountain's spine,
his arm crosses light years
of taboo
to mingle with those silky tresses
feeling their perfect softness
sliding through his fingers
like slithering snakes.
Too late
he sees her true eyes
riding the dark waves,
not the false reflection
whose writhing tentacles
caress him, urging him
to the perfection
of water.
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