(Poem) Sacred Fantasy

This fantasy is of an ager.

No doubt, kiddy minds flop this notion.

No hesitations stall my wager.

And, with this maturity so major,

you’d, too, bet pride, with hasty motion.

 

It bears no sexual cliché ties,

contrary to childish assumption.

Those guttered minds soon realize,

intercourse stands as no solo prize,

with our thoughts warmed by Fall conjunctions

 

Fall’s leaves’ reddening is as our crush.

My Colorado’s heat blocks all chills.

Traffic concerns us not.  Where’s the rush?

The radio knob is slapped, to “hush”.

Of those tales, from her work, I want my fill.

 

Both our brisk steps, from truck to front door,

are due to dull skies now drenching.

But, joys have been found in such downpours.

As for puddles, we soon can adore

from my shelter’s sill.  They’re now inching.

 

Our basking of warmth reeks of calm smells.

I let pies golden and perfect, while gone.

Wine hints help such a fine sauce not gel.

To my couch is where her pea coat fell,

just her knit and leggings needed on.

 

Indie songs and raindrops do blend swell.

Her accent critiques my chosen mix.

From Argentina, it narrates well.

It’s cute how we passionately sell

our preferences of base, taps, and ticks.

 

I’ve no doubt of a footsy contest.

It’d prompt her giggles and tip lush ships.

Our romantically childish, conquest

has no winning.  There’s only us pest.

Our feet disrupt the words from our lips.

 

That preparation would honor me.

I’d gladly chef all day, for no tip.

The only place I’d better see

those beautiful hands, of hers, to be

is on my garlic knots, to dip.

 

Once she’s made stuffed and vino takes its toll,

Wits then’d clash, amid four chess plays.

We’d indulge ’til laughs burst and eyes roll. 

Then, it’s to the couch, to bare our souls.

Amongst warm sheets, our dreams we’d convey.

 

Could I escalate the relations?

Now doubt, she’d trust me to play captain,

to the moods without hesitation.

Only weak men would speak persuasion,

for this day proved my heart’s action.

 

Steering that mood to wholesome

would be macho, as far too many.

I’d, instead, praise not being lonesome.

Just deeming her day less toilsome,

evokes satisfactions, of many.

 

I’ve little to contest feeble minds,

that judge such grand fantasies, as yawns.

pity their partisan finds.

Joys of my life stay of simple kinds,

like our cozy java-meet, next dawn.


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All Entries, Featured Poetry, Strictly for Lovers

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