Fingers brushing inside me
slipping over corpulent flesh
drawing forth the memories of refinement
and firing the souls of half remembered epiphanies,
ripping them from some silent hearth,
fueled in the dark,
by a light that glows true and bright.
brought into a present, tense,
beneath your sculptured fingers of bliss.
Delving within the locked rooms,
the hidden corridors of a dusty old house,
flinging wide the curtains from aged windows,
sweeping in an instant,
the cobwebs, and dust-devils,
from that chaliced palace.
You are the cleaner of my soul,
wiping away the torrid years,
and filling the reckless hole.
© Richard Michael Parker 2010