Rembrandt

My Rembrandt…

I couldn’t really appreciate her,

Through the lens I couldn’t smell the lilacs

The way their delicate scent placates the soul

Like the subtle notes from a music box.

I dreamt of her, stroking her thigh with my hand

Understanding her ends and my beginnings

Undressing her conscience, tearing down walls,

Making love to her thoughts, even those hidden.

Seduction; enticing me to secretly do,

Passion, it rules us all, and we must obey.

It’s Crazy I knew nothing of her at all—

Except how fiercely I’ve dreamt of her each day

My sheets were a sweaty mess, as she drew me in

Believing her real, my mind opened the door.

A ravenous beauty, craving compassion,

hunger expelling through her every pore.

A trickle of sweat, little beads of lust,

My eyes ogling, their steady gaze resounds.

Each curve of her frame like a creamy slope

The valley’s darkened raptures without bounds

I froze and just stood there, starring at her

What an amazing creature that she was

I couldn’t fathom how she’d make me feel,

Was I in awe of her, or was it just because…—

Because she owned the room with the wink of an eye

And the arch of her chest; the sounds of folding,

Grown men’s knees flailing at her pleasure,

Droves of unbounded desire built up and swollen,

The seduction was real, my smoking heart…

The cleft in-between where memories were lost

Her breaths were deep, rearranging her chest,

men prayed that her spoken words were meant to accost

Silhouettes danced upon the walls of my head

Inebriated by her short, breathless pant

In that paused tick, desire raced a faster pace

Intoxication, where a kiss is my Rembrandt.

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Paul Neglia

Proud father of 3. Part time writer of poetry and short stories. I want to paint the world in but a few words.

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