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Not moist, red lips
Not moist red lips, nor limpid eyes,
nor subtle undulating flesh,
nor breasts of cream, pink nipples fresh,
nor soft recidivistic thighs,
nor all the strange spasmodic bliss
that lurks within that orifice
where scent of myrrh, breath of the sea,
cause lonely cries of ecstasy
can bind as tightly as a smile,
as firmly as a gentle word.
Exchange excludes, demands defile;
indifference leaves love undeterred.
Those eyes ensnare that recognise
love is a gift and not a prize.
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