Hot
Molten steel
Arc of
Elecricity jumps
Igniting sparks
Like stars
Hotter than the sun
Joining together
The unfamiliar into
One
Slow moving
White fire
Back and forth
Burning friction
Our mutual combustion
All that's left
Is cinders
And slag
Ripe peach
Soft texture
Between your lips
Sweet nectar
Drips
From your chin
Extract
Distilled
Luscious tongue
Regales
Divine flesh
Until the peach
Has come
And gone
1 comment:
I like the metaphor here. It's a nice juxtaposition of hard and soft. Very well done.
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