With eyes of decadence and breasts so sensuous,
I bow to you.
Your hair is long, so dark and so true.
Every strand glimmers and speaks for you.
I sense your lips, so tender, so moist.
I wish to kiss you my lips speak my voice.
What can I do when I know you have me? Dare I admit it’s true?
Your beauty has caused mass persecution.
Who am I to judge your exquisite revolution?
Your love has tempted more than all men.
It has been said that there is a bleeding, winding road whose sign reads:
“Venture if ye dare. Leave all firstborn sons behind, lest ye have no heir.”
Exotica.
Your skin is of the caramel persuasion.
I wish to taste it in the morning, at noon, and on all occasions.
I wish to wake next to you, breathing your air.
I wish to share my feelings with you, and this I pledge.
I am compelled to caress your skin, skin softer than a gentle whispering wind flowing
over a sun-bathed lagoon.
Will you share yourself with me?
Or shall I be one of many,
conquered by your eyes and subdued by your grace?
What does it take to win your heart without sealing my fate?
My beloved Exotica.
As your feet stroke the ground, you penetrate the groove of a man’s soul.
You may know of your power to affect the creature born lonely
of a spoken entity.
God knows what he created in the beloved deity,
but in the midst of his creation he failed to give to the beauty mere empathy.
That’s why so many souls are strewn along that road,
the road known as Man’s Strife.
What is the chance that I will be able to reach others…
others with tales of the one called Exotica, Conqueror of Males?
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