Sacred Fantasy (Poem)

This fantasy is of an ager.
No doubt, kiddy minds dump this notion.
No hesitations stall my wager.
And with this maturity so major,
you’d, too, bet pride, with hasty motion.

It bears no sexual cliché ties,
contrary to childish assumptions.
Those guttered minds soon realize,
intercourse stands as no solo prize,
with our bond warmed by Fall conjunctions.

Fall’s leaves’ reddening is as our crush.
My Colorado’s heat blocks all chills.
Traffic concerns us not. Where’s the rush?
The radio knob is slapped, to “hush”.
Of those tales, from her day, I want my fill.

Both our brisk steps, from truck to front door,
are due to dull skies now drenching.
But, joys have been found in such downpours.
As for puddles, we soon can adore
from my shelter’s sill. They’re now inching.

Our bastion of snug reeks of calm smells.
I left pasta to bubble while gone.
Wine hints help such a fine sauce not to gel.
To my couch is where her pea coat fell —
just her knit and leggings needed on.

Indie songs and raindrops do blend swell.
Her accent critiques my chosen mix.
From Argentina, it narrates well.
It’s cute how we passionately sell
our preferences of base, taps, and ticks.

I’ve no doubt of a footsy contest.
It’d prompt her giggles and playful grips.
Our romantically childish, conquest
has no winning — just us being blessed.
Our toes disrupt the words from our lips.

That preparation would honor me.
I’d gladly chef all day, for no tip.
The only place I’d better see
those beautiful hands of hers to be
is on my garlic knots, to dip.

Once she’s made stuffed and vino takes its toll,
Wits then will clash amid four chess plays.
We’d indulge ’til laughs burst and eyes roll.
Then, it’s to the couch, to bare our souls.
Amongst fuzzed sheets, our dreams we’d convey.

Could I escalate the relations?
No doubt, she’d trust me to play capitan,
in our moods without hesitation.
Weaker men would try such persuasion,
But, this day proved my heart’s acción.

Steering such naughty vibes to wholesome
won’t be seen as manly by many.
I’d, instead, prize not being lonesome.
Just deeming her day less toilsome,
evokes satisfaction a plenty.

I’ve no want to contest feeble minds,
who greet such pure fantasies with yawns.
I pity such partisan kinds.
My life joys are simplest to find,
like us sharing the shower at dawn.

From the Soul,
TheStormyPoet.com