With one last stroke My soul is defined My art Is probing prose Poetic pride My woman sighs With my hand at her thighs The white soft skin Red hot lips Oh how I love Their tender grip Death is grinning A sullen smile Leading you through The final mile Take the hand For your ending journey Death has the face Of a child
Thank you. I thought so too. I've been writing a lot more often now, and I love it. I'm starting to really get in touch with myself again. Do you write, because I'd love to see some.
