Struggle & Surrender Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

Pale and slender, the new moon is rising.
Petals and perfumes are plumes of delight.
A nectarous moisture slips through the seam
shining soft like the silken dews of night.

One small bud of pleasure opens a rose.
Its inner petals are aching to see
the lush of the loom of towering strength,
the luscious limb of libidinous lea.

Tumbling twilight runs warm in her veins
as a mossy fence circles the flower.
The fruit of the sex is sunshine on lips
as he suckles the bounteous dower.

Lingua lunges with violent lashes,
a white-hot poker of burning excess,
a dancing dagger, a succulent slave
trained to submit in the soiree of sex.

A crimson cushion cradles her body,
floating forever in a sea of bliss;
and breathing deeply, she yields completely,
offering all to his ravenous kiss.

Her face is flushed with flecks of flaming fire.
Her fingers tangled in his midnight hair.
Wet and feverish, she shakes in her bones,
thoroughly plundered and gasping for air.

His secretive laughter rings of triumph
as azure shadows dance across his face;
and linking her ankles around his neck,
he makes a necklace of sacred embrace.

He looks like a god glittering in light,
the milk moon memory of captive mind,
riding her, crushing her, stretching her sex,
in the frenzy of love and lust combined.

In and out he drives it with forceful zeal,
slapping her bottom with every thrust.
Gorgeous distress is scripted in her eyes,
caught on the verge of climactic combust.

In a white explosion of ecstasy,
the pale moon is splintered beautifully;
and stars are born in the sky of his eyes,
as she gazes at him, dutifully.

The struggle and surrender of the heart
is a battle of delicate design:
a bud and a rose, a sheath and a sword,
burning bodies in a bottle of wine.

Whines and whimpers and sweet supplication,
these are the lacings of submissive chain.
Tethers and tortures and naked taboo
hang on the wall at the back of the brain.

The memory trembles upon her lips,
how at once he is cruel and tender;
and she closes her eyes for he has won.
It is the twilight of her surrender.