Sunday confessions, cat

Each bead

thumbed in reverence

not with prayer

but with each burning desire

that begins

with your name.

.

Sunday

kneeling

wafer upon my tongue

a prayer in my head

as I imagine your taste.

.

These days

he becomes the starting

and ending words

of my Sunday confessions.

.

No sooner have I confessed

and repented

than he has me on my knees.

Sinning.

Again.

Each defilement

glorious

violent

and dark. 

.

Confess to me.

Satisfy your sins

along every silken inch of skin.

My curves

your path

of destruction

of salvation.

Amen.

:

*Another instalment in my Sunday confessions.

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from Pinterest

 

 

 

Music of rain

Raindrops have their own music

In this symphony of rain

The initial movement is undoubtedly

Allegro agitato

The rain

Fast and angry

Making a statement

Making an entrance

This eases into andante

But the rain

When there is a storm

Never starts with one tempo and ends with another

There is a continual accelerando and ritardando 

Fast

Slow

Fast

Slow

Until the heavens empty of their anger

The sky clears

And the sun comes out

 :

*Written two years ago but as I watch and wait for the rain it seemed a perfect time to repost.

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from Pinterest, original provenance unknown.

Flowering beauty

Every thought

a seed planted,

watered with attention,

becoming the flowering beauty

of words spread across the page.

Giving colour and image

vibrancy and warmth

to the pristine façade

of an otherwise

monochromatic life.

#AprilFalls

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from the internet, original provenance unknown.

If it is yours please let me know and I will remove or credit.

Luminary

Hope is a luminary 

she sets alight

and frees into the night air

watching the light as it travels

following its path

believing in its brightness

finding the unexpected storm

that blows the flame out

in a single burst

casting her into darkness

leaving her to search

for that flicker

the hope that she had

a purity of faith

that would right her perspective

that would calm her soul

that would make her remember

and believe

that there is good that happens

after all

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from Pinterest

Red poppies

Fields of red poppies

Litter the landscape of my soul

Composed bleeding

Never a mess to be found

Yet the color gives voice to pain

To the wrenching hurt

Of being meticulously cut

A thousand silent times

Never noticed

My face ashen

As pretty poetry takes

My life blood

#AprilFalls

:

©SirenSong1208

Artwork by Moey

How the night moves

She loves how the night moves

How it curls itself

Around her

Softly caressing

The inky, velvety black darkness

So still

So quiet

Whisper soft

Allowing her thoughts

To rove and ramble

To be free

To breathe

:

*Written two years ago but I still adore the night, and how it moves.

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from WhiteNoten

Amaranthine

It was a moment suspended in time,

one she returned to again and again.

As brilliant as the brightest star

shining in her midnight sky,

it became an amaranthine memory,

neither waxing nor waning

as the moon

but perpetual as the ocean’s tides.

Her fingers traced its outline

reminiscing,

the heat captured within

warming her

still

its colours remaining true

through time.

#AprilFalls

:

©SirenSong1208

Image taken from Beautymothernature.tumblr

A sea of white

It is a sea of white upon the mahogany of a four poster

The two of them adrift in the night

Amid sheets and pillows and covers

Clinging to each other in sleep

The silence of the night broken only by

The ticking of the clock counting off each minute

 .

In the predawn hours he wakes to the scent of her hair

Its silky strands caressing his face

A dark storm

Wild and wayward upon her pillow

Her face is peaceful in sleep

A slight smile upon her lips

Dark eyelashes feathered upon her cheeks

Her skin is pressed to his

From shoulder to toes

His arms around her holding her close to him

His heat keeping her warm

His hands are on her breasts

He idly thumbs her nipples

Making them harder

And elicits a soft moan from her sleepy lips

His hands drift down to her hips

The curve fitting perfectly into his hands

He pulls her tighter to him

Gently pushing himself against her buttocks

Making his arousal known

 .

He turns her toward him and takes her warm and pliant body in his arms

Her skin seems even softer than the night before

He loses himself in the feel of her

Her scent intoxicating him

His desire building

As he tastes and teases her

Waking her to his arousal

Making love to her

Slowly

Leisurely

Learning her all over again

:

©SirenSong1208

Photo taken from Pinterest

She has curves

She has curves

He loves to grip.

Holding her close to his chest

Resting in his lap

He caresses her.

His fingers knowing which strings

To pluck

To strum

To tease

To make the most beautiful music.

He makes her sing sweetly.

Sometimes she is accarezzévole

As though she is whispering tenderly.

Other times

She is played con affetto

She is roaring with passion

With abandon

His lover giving her all.

But whichever way she sings to him

Her voice

Her song

Is just

For

Him.

:

©SirenSong1208

Art taken from verycoolphotoblog.com

Resurrection

Every passing night

found her performing miracles

with the dawn.

His resurrection

under her touch

sinful and holy

simultaneously.

Giving rise

to a new religion.

:

©SirenSong1208

Photograph taken from PerfectlyPersuasive