Poetry

WitchHazel

Another poem I penned late at night. Dedicated to my dear, sweet Sister WitchHazel.


She stands before them, a crowd of men

Reciting a piece of prose she’d penned.

Her heart and soul spills from her lips

But she knows. She knows,

What they want are her hips…

The lights are dimmed, candles are lit

There’s not a sound in the room but the clock’s tic… tic… tic…

From somewhere begins the slow beat of a drum,

She feels the shift; her body, it hums.

The drummer begins to quicken the beat.

WitchHazel quickens the dance of her feet

Her hips, they roll. her breasts they heave

The crowd is panting, no-one speaks.

The temptress has awoken. She is alive, in the flesh.

She is dancing, and slithering, and flaunting her chest.

Her skin is on fire, her body is hot

The men shift in their seats to make room for their cocks…

Yet…

The beat slows down, the song comes to an end.

And the men all pray she’ll come dance again…

 

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