Softest Fleshes

The Sun dressed Her.

Her sundress, tresses.

That fleeting smirk confesses

Things I’d hoped to hear.

Wishful thinking,

But She impresses,

Perhaps She holds me near.

Dear. Trusted, but rusted,

Old Sun’s caresses,

Can leave burns in the

Softest Fleshes.


© All rights reserved, 2017.

Blogging Poetry

Obol View All →

Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.

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