Roses galore, petals kiss your thirst and mountains spit collages of serene kiosk…
At a time of penchant vows, I courageously demean the dawn to caress and make love.
Very, astonishingly, brave, mild, grizzly moan and fetish desires engulf paradigm.
I, fake, not to diminish but to flourish with pretentious glory.
Ah, my pittance of a mimic glows through the veins of malicious pun.
And, respite doesn’t meet me until I devour the known to giggle the unknown.
Yet, women, mostly, are paradoxical occurrences of my mingle minds. No, they love me.
Why? Where? Hmmmm… How? No, let’s go back and fend actions that mattered.
Am I to love and perish with substance that usually forges anonymity?
Guess what, I still love thee to elude wrath and flaunt insatiable within core.
Ecstasy, mind you, is a state of being you and inviting magnetic proportions.
I, think to be devoid, but, known to be alive despite.
While the world basks itself in ballistic hormones of youthful bliss (well, evolution might not alter few that scream from within), I, the most laudable of niche, wish you all, the memoirs of a beautiful and a voluptuous lifeomaniac. Or, perhaps, for the one that’s in the making.