The Fever Pitch Itch

Who understands the logic behind the desire, The earnest heart-filled passion of true love? It flies and flurries up like birds on the wing. Or it makes us the most worried of souls... Like nausea, it makes the breasts itch. Unmet, it is like a fret turned into a frown, Just like a birthmark, true love never leaves us. What is my manmade-hunger and thirst, this raw obsession? It courses, unstoppable, through my fevered blood, As if it were a naked, open cord. It sips me as if I were its mother's breasts. Drip, drip, drip... always thirsty for more... The succulent juices taste of tropical fragrant gardens, Arrested within a sultry autumn scent, Voluptuous with citrus fruits, myrtles and jasmines, Alive with effervescent, vibrant, pulsating bees' buzz. I sense all fruit sap, so fervently throbbing, As if it were the very current of my life-giving blood... The green flooding into the ruby rose red. Joining, becoming one, celebrating joyous harmony, All of Nature combined into something new, Something for-ever-green... Something exquisite, delicate, Deserving to be cherished, revered and forever loved. For she is the most beautiful girl in the world, Adorned with radiant roses and orchids in her golden hair. Here I stand, and so in love... Knowing I'll never be the same again! Sigh...