Healer (undergoing revision)

To my healer, kind and wise

--for whom I would suffer bullets:

What do you hide,

my blue-eyed tiger,

beneath your coat of white?

So magnetic is your stride

and your eyes so haunting,

the woman within me cannot help

but to be drawn unto you.

There can be no stronger pill

nor a sweeter symphony

than the sound of your voice that welcomes me

when you walk into a room.

So mesmerized am I and trembling of breath

when you greet me with your smile,

that I stumble in thought and word.

Surely you must catch my shyness

when I return your look;

but can you see a passion that pulses

beneath me when I turn away?

(What if I told you true,

My designs to penetrate

Eden's iron gates?

Would a man so properly


Be so terribly shocked?

Would you find me


Would you


Your fire,

My air,

Combine to blaze

O'er miles of spare days.

You glide to where I stand.

Gloved satin fingers

Skate their patterns, that

Spark sensations thought


Impaled onto you,

Farther we fall

Down into our bed of

Blissful sin.

Glazed azure pools


Our glistened bodies


Our souls no longer our own,

But molten

Into one.

In these volcanic depths

We writhe;


Becomes our drug.

Crucified a thousand times,

We separate,


Two lava forms

Side by side,

Waiting to solidify,


Our proper selves again.)

Fran Hinkle


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