Sussing's 'Wlyde' Poem by Michael Walkerjohn

All that matters, of the matter which is you,
herein these words seethe,
upon that, which is beneath your breasts,
baste' on the silky smooth of your flesh;
tense focused surely,
on thoughts that make, one's first sins shriek;
bound strikingly true,
within the folds and moist, that sweet scents thresh;
horizon's veil shorn clean,
mind's tastelessness, sans curiosity's cute pique;
tunneled truths, into that sought for sanctum,
between your sway and blush;
laid open ‘wlyde', lust's breach responds,
in kind the swollen ayes in flushing peek;
full fleshed, such tenders Vesta's orbit routs,
an ovum plucked, thrills fruit's full flush;
your self's swale, in instance pout and rue retreat,
my muse transgress it's mindful meek;
groping kneed, this path to precious piece,
she's sown sentir and promotes thought's tush;
one's leering intrigue tongues,
lovely tender folds, that yield their fresh to probing sweep;
pierced depth my thrust seeks sultry lock,
of passion's wile, and wide, wildly opened plush;
eulogistic moans released entomb within,
supple shrine of Venus moved, this gift of treasure's deep;
from mortary's flume and virgin's fruit begin,
cums heaven's seed, bearing love's gift du Ruche';
this truth's fineness, endowed of the universes' lament,
this send, this child of true will's own keep;
shorn of world's chains and turned to finest true,
upon the mind, which sees my sense in each lusting push;
matched in moaning fury by your want, and need, and burn,
to pull more than me into your syrup's suite;
towards ends that only Roman Emperors glee,
beyond Byron's "Land of Paradise" reviewed;
my lover's twins, those whining,
and moaning lips I buss.