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/Faded Romantic

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

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

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

 

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.

.

.

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

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

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.

.

.

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

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

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.

.

.

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

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

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.

.

.

Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and here once or twice. But one always adores a 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.

.

Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph stolen from TheAppleScientist

I discovered today, quite by chance, that I had recorded the audio for this poem, but never published it. So a thin excuse for a repost

 

Journey begins

To be her first.

To be regarded enough for her to bend.  To be respected enough for her to yield. To be admired enough for her to kneel.

To be the one made holy by her gift, never before given.

It is an honour for him.

It is a wild, heady, nervous, exciting and achingly erotic moment for her.

Their journey begins.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Nahuaconetl

 

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.

.

Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph stolen from TheAppleScientist