Gentile Dreaming

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    Gentile Dreaming

    The warmth of the morning's breath
    sprawled across the bed.
    What's mine is yours...

    Fingers,
    now grasping at linen sheets
    that glow so pure
    in a faint, timeless summer.

    I felt your arms maneuver around my waist,
    until they settled into place,
    strong like castle walls.
    Your eyes calculated time through precious memories
    that are now fogging our teenage minds.
    Your lips are gentile,
    as if you were holding an egg in the back of your throat.
    I was dreaming about the ocean
    again,
    only this time,
    I woke up,
    and the dream didn't end.

    By: Brandi Deacon
    2010

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    BlackButterfly1 commented on Gentile Dreaming

    05-21-2010

    Brandi, your writing skills are divine. I felt as if I were there while reading this. Excellent word play. Keep up the good work!

    BringMeBullets

    06/18/2010

    Thank you...

    dahlusion commented on Gentile Dreaming

    05-11-2010

    "The warmth of the morning's breath sprawled across the bed. What's mine is yours..."—how sexy is this? very! And then this masterful phrase:"I felt your arms maneuver around my waist, until they settled into place, strong like castle walls"—oh, my!

    BringMeBullets

    05/11/2010

    Hehe. Thank you, again. :) It sure means a lot to me.

    susanismith commented on Gentile Dreaming

    04-27-2010

    How sweet is this poem, knowing that your fantasy and dream is not a dream at all anymore but real... My mind drifting with your words... nicely written

    BringMeBullets

    04/28/2010

    Thank you.. :)

    ginga commented on Gentile Dreaming

    04-24-2010

    bullets...this poem is "simply divine." It touched me in a profound way. ginga

    BringMeBullets

    04/26/2010

    Thank you, Ginga. :)

    stefy commented on Gentile Dreaming

    04-24-2010

    So gentile..........really nice poem Brandi!!!..................

    BringMeBullets

    04/26/2010

    Thanks new friend... :)

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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