Somewhere, a love song. Under cotton sheets, a woman red
As velvet dreams about fantasies & realities,
Pillow talk in quiet whispers & longing. Woman
Becomes velveteen petals; demur moorings rise, beg archaic
Soft fluttering of moans, at beckons touch, at least
Fingertips arouse a moment or two. Don't lick the dragon's breath.
Dragon's are what they are. They know how to feast.
Swallow every morsel. Swallow a soul whole. Wicked day to be a
Dragon tint of a man uncovered. But here, not fantasy
nor reality, woman won't forget their scorn
stained of sanguine. Here, there there is no physiatrist for
mistaken choices or a guidebook on relationships, no magic potion.
If love songs, it'd be dragon's breath. Please don't name
us insecure, call us hopeful dreamers in a Harlequin romance novel.
We love deeply when given the opportunity.
We give our reassurance, tether our hearts to love & commit.
And this is what we want; come dusk of morning
After waking, we tame the dragon's breath.
©Linda J. Wolff