To Dance The Dance

Her Lips are like a moist warm towel, speaking words that raise
the hairs of the arm.

She is an angel grooming her mind for a life that stretches beyond mankind.

She dances in her mind from a memory long passed behind, to blossom
into that one single rose that stands above the vines.

She has longed for love and a warm chest to keep her near in troubled
times, finally to meet the man, the MAN, in which to life's disease is blind.

(Thomas L. Bordelon)

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