Oh, my, how you dance with words,
Discretely swirling your skirt,
In a display of controlled abandon,
Slowly slipping from the beaten dirt,
Onto the grass which leads
To the brush where lovers congregate,
Casting off the confining
Traces of convention,
Caught up in the heated rhythms,
The pounding beats that reververate,
Vibrating the innermost walls
Of the fortress which so long
Has protected you from the
Current assaults of passion.
(Just written.)
Donovan Baldwin