Hay Loft Steeple


The smell of frost is like seeing snow covered farmland under a full moon, and the color of my lover's skin is that of moon beams.

Musty air fills my lungs like the shadows that fill this old hay barn; the moon lights the hay softly in yellow, the way my tongue softly tastes his voluptuous lips.

A Tom cat serenades futility to mother cats too burdened with new litters to yield to nature's calling, as I worship the love stirred by following the waves of goose bumps across his torso with my fingertips.

Winter is the sound of icy mountain air blowing across the frozen snow, and love can be heard when the tongue tastes the sweet bird of youth.

Livestock make the sounds of the daily chores that consume the country men that hate my godlessness, but divine inspiration is love's expression of primitive desire to the untainted sons of the ecclesiastical.

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