Skin

The layer of pleasure,
the periphery of desire,
enslaves us often,
tying us in earthly quagmire.

Brush of the derma horripilates,
touch of the hair titillates.
Fingers faint us and nails kill;
yet can't stop those mild caresses.

Skin is the master,
mind is the slave;
we toil, sweat and pant,
for a downpour of pleasure,
through mounts of pain.

Lips roll over drooling tongue
melting in enchanting kisses;
eyes close in anticipation of
pleasure that mind seldom misses.

The eyes in their closure bear the nuance,
lips whisper the lover's name;
mind then conjures the countenance
and makes us all play the carnal game.

Skin is the channel,
mind is the means;
for in the bodily fusion,
fructify the divine plan of creation.