Neophyte
.
In the middle of our conversation
my eyes are drawn
to the pale,
translucent skin of your throat,
to the shadowed hollow
and your perfect bones.
.
I am struck blind
by the holiest of visions.
.
Later staring out of the darkness
my fears are stilled
by the soft
remembered curve of your smile,
and the touch of your hand
when once alone.
.
I am sublime
with glorious religion.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic
This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and posted here a number of times. But one always adores a neophyte.
Art by Thomas Saliot
The Reluctant Poet 