Words Much Like Poetry

brief glances, imparted under flirtatious design, the sizing of possibility's true measure, drift irrepressible speculations to the forefront of a perplexedly sensual mind. those musings—of scalding pressure, applied in desperate finesse, to the gracious curves of woman's bend— set nervous lips to smiling in frank longing as pins prick blushed and dimpled cheeks.

it is not that I do not thirst for knowledge or pay mind to the concept of the day, but at times it seems as if that territory, that place where issues coalesce then spill forth, is as foreign to me as the moon. I cannot expound in writ upon the dark man, about the drudgery that was enforced upon him, and the poverty that then befell him. nor can I construct rhetoric, drawn of a century and more, whereupon the grand tale of his struggle to find dignity in a world which seemed designed to vilify him would find me acclaim. only in spoken exchange can I extol my thoughts on how he has redefined his talents, the dark man is no longer a universal object of disparagement, now he is close friend and perfect complement to that which was held pedestaled above the reach of his competent palm. and the ability that was always his due, as it is woman's due, has not stopped old glory from snapping sharply in the breeze.