Neophyte

 

Neophyte

.

In the middle of our conversation

my eyes are drawn

to the pale,

translucent skin of your throat,

to the shadowed hollow

and your perfect bones.

.

I am struck blind

by the holiest of visions.

.

Later staring out of the darkness

my fears are stilled

by the soft

remembered curve of your smile,

and the touch of your hand

when once alone.

.

I am sublime 

with glorious religion.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and posted here five or six times. But one always adores a neophyte. 

Art by Thomas Saliot