Passion

Ripe as the apple of Eve
embraced by his flesh
savored by their being
she waits with songs of
abandon and desire
anxious to be played
strings taught

 anticipating

the orchestration
Hearing only a sweet
air of ardor, the bud full
ripe as it matures bids

 the seduction

Painted blush of nature
the impassioned fruit
is given,  juices sweet
in  loves  delusion, a
symphony unblemished
within Life’s garden

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