The raw rah of passion
breathes in,
a yet rarified air.
Your skullcap
of self-restraint
begins to absolve,
resolve, dissolve.
That you bit my back hard
is a bootstrap expression
of a false groundedness,
but for now,
you are unbuckled.
Fury, with its own voice,
works its way through you,
imbibed within
your inner writhing.
At first glance,
you appear,
as the look of madness.
But that face of you,
which was previously in
some soft form of stone
is becoming a lucidity,
feverish, and flash dancing.
Soon to arrive,
if your transformation
is to be keyed,
is the full blush
of a blessing presence . . .
into the raw rah of passion,
as the complete flush
of you, beauteously,
into a primal time,
before forever . . .
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