The seed speaks to your secret bloom, your quiet rose, your petaled room.
Slender temple, softness curling, such designs define your tomb.
These hollow hands breach hollow breast, reach restless places deep within.
Breathless bliss stirs all amiss, casts moony marbles ‘cross your skin.
The nectar heart, in cream arrayed, awaits the hour of stowaway.
Days are yours—for dreams, you pay . . . so play my sweetest flower, play.