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)