Instinct

Lucidly probing 'neath the surface of sense,
In the subconscious realm we know as a dream;
I am thrust to a world of lunar regime
Perfumed with aloes and jasmine incense.

Here I meet Ayn, The Queen of the Elves,
Who captures my heart with a touch of her foot.
Our mutual desire is intense and pure but
We wait for three months in spite of ourselves.

When at last our lips touch our passions burst,
Like the beaver dam when the rains blow.
A frenzy of touches and licks follow:
Endlessly quenching an insatiable thirst.

In time things calm down as children ensue,
But at least once a week we enjoy a great screw.

S.C.