Wooing words that slip like freshly peeled kiwis from smiling lips,
Soft, sweet and with the promise of a sustenance
that my wandering soul craves.
dripping with innuendo.
How can I resist
such tender fruit when this empty space calls out to be filled
and hunger challenges my senses to make sense
of sounds that set my mouth to water,
My intellect succumbs like a tired child
to this savory lullaby of flavours
leaving my will untethered.
I dip my fingers in sticky honey,
knowing the difficulties I will have washing it away.
Given over to the sensation
of softness and intoxication,
a sugary suspension of a flavorless solitude.
- the South