Venus of His

She's such a pretty thing her smile's a sin,
Venus of his, budding siren-sweetness
Botticelli-like; luminous likeness,
cerulean eyes, alabaster skin.
Long curled lashes shielding shyness, her twin
orbs no more reveal than naked neatness
she'd unveil and yield to lust's completeness:
His loss, the longings misgivings have been.
He smolders, she fires his desires.
That was then tenders reminders again:
How he'd press his lips on her pounding pulse;
hold her; thunder heartthrob-stolen sounds when
in the flesh, (which her image inspires),
he didn't shout he loved her, last impulse.

copyright Helga Ross 2004, 2005