A poem written (hopefully) in old English…don’t worry it was all foreign to me too.
The mere whisper of thine warm breathe on thy neck
Is nearly but not quite the pull thou aspire in thy loins
How thou longed the embrace would not be the last
**
Thy humble, fervent master, much gratitude
**
Much gratitude thou bestow on thee, thy unpretentious one
O how thou long for thee to come, so thy self I can proffer
Thou flesh is but a dull substance without thine caress
The treasure of thy beauty is not forbidden to thee
Be not self-willed when it comes to thine loins
Take thee as if thy life depends, over and over, until spent
**
Thou will contentedly take thy wet seed between thy thighs
So that thou shall once again rise, rise high above
And strike to take what’s rightfully thine.
Welcome to Authspot, the spot for creative writing.
Read some stories and poems, and be sure to subscribe to our feed!