She
by Jonathan Quince
Thursday, December 29, 2005 00:52:53
In my mind, a paragon of beauty stands naked and proud at my beloved dream-pool’s edge. She knows aught of villainy or corruption, for she is pure; and as the rain-drops fall from the moon’s silv’ry sky, her skin is wreath’d by an aura of crystal sparks. Each spark is also a prickling point ’pon the senses of her skin: Chill and bracing to match her heat, wet to match the flows in her heart or loins. You have yet to meet her, but she haunts me in my dreams; and if she comes to visit you, I bid ye, make love to her until the stars overhead are matched by those in your heart, in your blood, ’fore your eyes.