Ode To Venus Poem by Andrew David Hunt

In the glint of your clear crystal eyes,
I am witness to the birth heaven's child;
For they shine with unfettered resonance.
and in the scent of your tender parted lips,
So sensual and bountiful with honeyed sips;
My soul rests with heavy permanence.

For you raise me upon pealed parted wings,
only To set me down, within shuddered swirls;
where iced cyclones of shattered air explode.
Then caress me, with virgin sighs sublime;
Yet with a smile of roasted plum delight;
you cleave my bloated, crimson soul in two.

with my nerves ridden raw by heated desire;
I long to feel the touch of your iced hands.
So I can rest, with dreams free from barbed-wire;
and dwell upon your trembling, sacred lands.
Oh how I loathe That shy, inner, well paged self,
Who guards, with shards, the reality of who I am.

For it's with gentle relish that I recall;
Your coy smile upon that heated summer night.
And how gladly we wrapped ourselves so small;
Yet gladder still, so tender and so very tight.
where we wrestled, for a moment, lost amid a thrall;
Then buried ourselves deep, in sensual delight.

And I recall shaded fragrant cinnamon threads;
That arose, full upon that glowing golden dawn.
While you slowly choose to allow my hands drawn,
To rest upon your tender-scented undressed nest.
That, with my slender keys I gladly then unlocked,
To then digest your heady sacred dampness

I see myself slowly begin to rise, redefined;
Tender and eager to reach within your sanctum.
Where eager sated souls do very seldom rest,
yet still manage to find contentment’s chasm.
And I, a mere servant to glorious Cleopatra;
feel near enthroned by your healing baptism.

For in your gentle caress, heaven is revealed;
and in your kiss I know how the dove is freed.
For your love is high above my weighted shield,
Which has been splintered by delights joyful sigh,
As rippled waves from within you are released.
Freeing this soul from chains that bind and blind.
But now as we meet on these aged steady streets,
Our eyes slowly wrestle yet never seem to nestle;
And our words wanly from our now, silent lips.
Yet… there rests the hint of a ready hope...
That perhaps those promises we had so vainly made
Could possibly just as easily- be broke?
(c) adh 2012