Poems ✍️

Pressed rose, sweet suckle, did we savour
in the brush of a summers eve moving-
fresh, as an evening breeze o'er Thames.

Moon spurred our moment of Bogart and Hepburn
'neath its beaconed smile ever lambent...,
quite audaciuosly.

Eye-drenched by showers of anthrocite,
tiny stars, what metaphor for a poem, you say....
Your beauty beholds my desire, I reply.

We made love 'neath th' crescent Moon
'til the Sun rose, painting our silhouettes...,
quite artistically...


FjR-MMXVI