Warm Smell Of It

I like the warm smell of it and feel of it, dates on the palm, And the thorn, the kiss, the sun how it flashes into flame, Boldface that sires, the range and sway of it, leaves move at the base. Than a slice of hope, a touch of the lips, the tip left burning. Has turned red as a beacon lost in the fog. The warning light that only you saw, lighter by hand. Blown brighter by breath coming out from the sea. The pushing and deep pull of it. The pump and retention of it, and finally the rejection of it. White sand, yellow sheets and dark paper's white ink.