I could circle you, ravenous, and take you as my prey,
But I would rather roll onto my back gentle as clouds and let you have me under that watching blue sky.
Control is an illusion but I keep reaching for it,
Perhaps I’ve been waiting for the caress of words; the intoxicating loss of control.
The muse imprisoned, willingly, by her poet,
Bound in the silky-soft restraints from one who understands
The eroticism of bare souls being seen.