Sipping the vintage of a thousand monks,
where the hearts beats like a metronome,
and the mouse becomes the roquefort,
keeping time with the bow flowing in symphony,
as the room becomes our sanctuary.
We are poets of the skin, rewriting the silence,
each breath a comma, each sigh a full stop,
painting the canvas of our desire in shades
of midnight, and the alchemy turning into gold.
Virtuoso of cello drawn bow, that pulses the cognac,
with echoes of vibrations warmed by the strings of night, clinging to bones of sensuality with a scent of archives, in shilouette, tracing contours of your secret garden, with each breath a comma.
Hi Atticus,
the way you write, you use right words and good vocabulary. what is the secret of your words, and imagination you create makes people making every imagination true if it would have been.
Jessy Jaocb.
…just free tme mind and imagine, but dont think
Great !
It’s beautiful, Atticus. Each line moving with that slow, deliberate breath.
Hey Curly! Thank you.
Hey, Curly! Thank you, kindly.