The poem is a dancer poised to spin on a turn of phrase, something tender, unveiling warm as the come hither of candlelight flickered and distorted through an opaque window, her tantric tugging urges captured of a hidden nub and so searching, snare in hand, blindfold, sensing shapes in dust and venicore, I chase her. Rings of curling smoke, almost perfect circles, dissolving gently into haze. Playful and just out of reach
J Stout
@DarkMoonMusings · 0:09
Oh, that elusive poem. But I'm pretty sure that you've caught her over and over and over again