Archaic Torso Of Apollon
© Surazeus
2017 11 27
How well I know the contours of his head,
where his eyes gleam bright like ripe pears we pluck
from twisted branches of ancient black trees,
as he lounges on the gold dazzling couch
on the small pyramid of cool white marble,
and watches us filling baskets with fruit
that bloom from seeds his mother pushed in soil
then watered with the tears of her desire.
I feel sweat dripping from my nipple tips,
half-hidden by the long white gown I wear,
while I peer sly through long black curls of hair
to peek at his sleek torso glowing bright
in dazzling sunlight and soothing moonlight,
and daydream that he grips me in his arms
and fills me with the gaze of his desire.
The sleek gold lion lounging by his couch
purrs and shakes his mane, then flicks his long tail,
as bold Apollon slides strong gentle hands
along his flickering hide, and gazes deep
in my aching eyes as if to caress
my hungry thighs that open at his kiss,
and Cupid flutters soft around my head.
The bow of his breast dazzles me with hope
when the long curve of his loins spirals smile
of aching passion that inspires my heart
to throb like gushing streams that tumble white
in snow-froth to fill deep lake of my heart
with waves that sparkle from sun of his eyes
when he chases me into its deep glow.
We float forever on cool crystal sheen
of bottomless abyss, defying death
with every kiss that penetrates dark night
with beaming rays of light, till my ripe womb
swells round as mountains with child of his soul,
and I remember still taut curves of flesh
that bulged beyond the edges of his skin.
Though he grows old and frail as rotting tree
that twists in relentless wind from cliff side
and we bury his bones and withered skin
under heap of broken marble, his eyes
still watch me from the dazzle of the sun,
and his strong spirit grows in son he sired
who watches young women plucking ripe pears.
Gripping hammer and chisel with my hands,
twisted more than branches of old pear trees,
I hack at block of marble, white as snow
like his torso that ripples at my touch,
and free his spirit from the mountain core,
carving the passionate shape of his head
with eyes that pierce my heart with deathless love.
I leave the statue of my strong Apollon
standing in the temple where he once lounged,
for, though his taut torso of tense desire
dissolved to dust that blows in wordless wind,
his pure Idea stands in marble form
ten thousand years to gaze in your new eyes,
inspiring you to love with fertile gaze.
© Surazeus
2017 11 27
How well I know the contours of his head,
where his eyes gleam bright like ripe pears we pluck
from twisted branches of ancient black trees,
as he lounges on the gold dazzling couch
on the small pyramid of cool white marble,
and watches us filling baskets with fruit
that bloom from seeds his mother pushed in soil
then watered with the tears of her desire.
I feel sweat dripping from my nipple tips,
half-hidden by the long white gown I wear,
while I peer sly through long black curls of hair
to peek at his sleek torso glowing bright
in dazzling sunlight and soothing moonlight,
and daydream that he grips me in his arms
and fills me with the gaze of his desire.
The sleek gold lion lounging by his couch
purrs and shakes his mane, then flicks his long tail,
as bold Apollon slides strong gentle hands
along his flickering hide, and gazes deep
in my aching eyes as if to caress
my hungry thighs that open at his kiss,
and Cupid flutters soft around my head.
The bow of his breast dazzles me with hope
when the long curve of his loins spirals smile
of aching passion that inspires my heart
to throb like gushing streams that tumble white
in snow-froth to fill deep lake of my heart
with waves that sparkle from sun of his eyes
when he chases me into its deep glow.
We float forever on cool crystal sheen
of bottomless abyss, defying death
with every kiss that penetrates dark night
with beaming rays of light, till my ripe womb
swells round as mountains with child of his soul,
and I remember still taut curves of flesh
that bulged beyond the edges of his skin.
Though he grows old and frail as rotting tree
that twists in relentless wind from cliff side
and we bury his bones and withered skin
under heap of broken marble, his eyes
still watch me from the dazzle of the sun,
and his strong spirit grows in son he sired
who watches young women plucking ripe pears.
Gripping hammer and chisel with my hands,
twisted more than branches of old pear trees,
I hack at block of marble, white as snow
like his torso that ripples at my touch,
and free his spirit from the mountain core,
carving the passionate shape of his head
with eyes that pierce my heart with deathless love.
I leave the statue of my strong Apollon
standing in the temple where he once lounged,
for, though his taut torso of tense desire
dissolved to dust that blows in wordless wind,
his pure Idea stands in marble form
ten thousand years to gaze in your new eyes,
inspiring you to love with fertile gaze.
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