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Sunday, September 16, 2012


The sweet smell of a gentle falling spring rain
The sound of leaves dancing a waltz in the wind
The rising of the moon from a sea of blackened blue
The touch of the sun’s warmth on a cold winter day.
The taste of exotic spices from lands that time forgot…

…all were just practice for the masterpiece.

The smell of her perfume rising in the night
The sound of her heart setting the evening’s rhythm
The rising of her eyes to meet you in love
The touch of her skin as darkness settles in
The taste of her lips in the midst of passion.

The woman is God’s Poetry perfected.

© Sept 16, 2012 ~ DBC, Duke of the Arctic

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