The night is a canvas
To a portrait deranged
Despite the tears that divide us
The scent of an angel remains.
Tempered by the fragrant
Of her pillow at night
But a shadow faded white.
Passion persuades my imagination
To go where no boundaries exist
And as my boat raises it’s sail
I find it hard to resist
I follow a trail of rose peddles
That lead me to the sole of her feet
Where I gaze upon the world
On top of old satin sheets
I can almost feel the rhythmic contractions
From the bosom of her breast
But when the sheets are unfold
I’m left in the cold…soaked and wet.