Visual sense.

Portals to the soul,
happiness that sparkles,
pain that dulls,
confusion that sits in the corners,
fear that flames.
A perfect outer shell of a soul, a map of latent symbols,
I taste the spirit that seeps from the pores beneath my tongue.
I feel the softness beneath my my finger tips.
Gates of paradise from which secrets are whispered,
the rising pleasure and tipping sensuality of abandonment.
Teasing hints and happy thoughts.
Desolate souls with trap doors within their throats.

Karen Hayward ©2016

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