The Peace Lily and the Wasp

The Peace Lily & The Wasp

Under the stillness
of sunbeams:
Adolescence.
Erect in a garden
of buds and agèd browns,
the Peace Lily stretches herself
towards the wasp,
vibrant
in the brilliance of her purity,
blinding
in the milkiness of her skin,
her lips spread, inviting,
intoxicating,
the honeyed aroma of her ripeness
permeates the air,
wafting out
an invisible flight plan,
a landing strip
lit with pheromones.
And the wasp comes,
it comes to the softness of her
to her juicy lips of love,
yawning to receive it.
Delectable.
The velvet silkiness
of her maiden flesh,
supple and supine for it,
just now starting to wrinkle,
rippling in controlled expectation,
in anticipation.
The peace lily shivers
in pre-coital release,
and the wasp enters her,
the gentle thrum of its life,
undulating inside her,
fluttering waves against her.
It extends even further,
and she responds,
a moment's quaking from
her moistening cup,
and the unbridled nectar oozes,
flows,
binding the wasp to her,
brevity to eternity,
she sways
in the sighs of orgasm,
and the breeze nestles
to cool her heat,
and it suckles her,
feeds from her.
Leaving only a
sticky trace of itself,
the wasp is gone,
buzzing to the next blossom,
and the peace lily is left
to wilt with the rest,
as the sun cradles its head,
its sorrow sheathed in earth's bosom.

Content Copyright 2011. Ami Lovelace. All Rights Reserved.