Down the ball of town, we hold and float,
I tripped while he fits and tilts me,
drowning against this lick, ripping off this nip
Say, baby this tongue is tied with thirst,
hold this hair with screams.
Oh, the twisted bed of stairs found him,
and in no time, indefinite, it hugged me,
Upon his rest, upon these dreams, he speaks,
claimed this, trapped this onto his breathe,
says, it was for him.
He never mistaken and I have never been in denial
until his skin skimmed mine, my, my,
my, raked naked honey loves to rub off his body
Who am I to ever think this as no, nullsense
until his bone and this walls,
nothings left for nothing.
A passage from Voice 4: Of change
© 2022 Deinty Woodtales