Cinnabar, cinnabar,
like fragrant spice
you wind around my tongue,
teasing out delicious prospects
of sensuous petals
trailing over perfumed skin,
of tempting glances from
widening eyes and
sweet wine kisses
inviting explorations
through passionate gardens
laden with nectar-ripe flowers;
white alabaster pillars -
cloisters of possibility,
tesserae and palm fronds -
sipping cooling breezes
into the tempting shade;
silken pillows whispering
of sinking pleasures
in subtle places,
incognito.

All from a word -
such a flavoured word
but such a deception,
twisting disappointment -
this rock, this ore,
this cinnabar.
Cinnabar
© Elfstone  24/5/11
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