Have you been resurrected yet?

 

A deeply metaphysical meditation on love—its arrival, its violence, its healing power, and its spiritual significance. 

Blending imagery of weather, kingdoms, resurrection, and emotional upheaval to portray love as both mysterious and transformative. 

One where the tone is contemplative, almost prayer-like, inviting the reader to consider love as a force that shapes identity and memory.

Title.

Have you been resurrected yet?

Is love like ethereal raindrops tumbling from a hot, unseen spiritual sky?

When you least expect it?

Does it reveal itself when two kingdoms suddenly clash and collide?

Mundane worlds.

Imploding and unraveling.

Given birth beneath infinite clouds of clandestine assignations.

Can our happiness.

Smiles and lamentations.

Sometimes drown.

Swept up within its dark seas of astounding revelations?

But do we crave LOVE to still get wet?

To bathe within its stimulating waters of repudiation or salvation.

All the while embracing its rough spiritual fingers.

Of life-changing rehabilitation to heal our old ways.

And to help us find a way to forget painful memories.

As our soft cheeks get wet through our second resurrection.

Our first being birthed.

Here on Earth.

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

    

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Are you undergoing reincarnated love?

 

Foundation.

Some old mythology says we are bound to find our twin flame or soulmate before we are born.

Our true other half.

This journey is simply repeated until we do.

No matter who we end up with.

To become whole.

Could old myths be true?

(A lone old voice whispers)

I write this for you to see in this lifetime because I couldn't find you, and my earthly time is nearly up. 

My beloved Mary Lee.

I know you were born to meet me. On the twenty-sixth of November.

A date I'll know forevermore.

As I look back.

Like now and remember.

For we shall be together. In The Great Nevermore.

Sharing conversations and sweet kisses:

Even after Death visits,

And offers you a drink of his sacrilegious dark wine. To end all your beautiful days and glorious time.

I just know we shall be together, like twinned pilgrims. In an eternal quest of hide-and-seek.

Set forth in the silence, by a long-remembered God.

Lost somewhere in some surreal time stream.

But together in insane spaces.

In-Between.

And as the soft, capricious winds of Heaven.

Change and dance like a wild Anna Pavlova. Between us.

Creating a moving sea of love between our two pulsating souls.

We shall know. In that very instance.

Holding hands.

Together, like first-date lovers.

In the universe's golden dust.

That we can sing and dance together,

Forever.

And be joyous in each and every form. For ours is a love story. Beyond the norm.

A love story that will forever survive.

Composed in golden italics and kept safely on gilded shelves, with so many others.

Written in Enochian Archives.

Stored beyond the Great Pillars.

In a sacred tabernacle.

By the pale blue Holy Sea.

Our Eternal Sea.

This I know because before I was born into physical form.

You were written. Into my history.

By my spirit guides, God and me.

The woman I'm bound to always love and try to find.

Whenever I'm reincarnated into mankind.

The one soul betrothed to me.

By an angel called ADOEOET,

He who sings like a bird, who once whispered 

Meet your true love. My beloved Mary Lee.

So see you in another lifetime. Your forever twin flame with no name.

Whose loved is buried so deep no matter how many times this incredible thing called life:

Tries to bury me. 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Cogitation

 

Depending on your age or having a busy schedule, have you forgotten your younger years?

A poem about contemplation, nostalgia, personal history, and the human tendency to forget the beauty of earlier life unless we consciously revisit it. 

Encouraging the reader to slow down and cherish their memories—both joyful and painful—because they form the foundation of who we are.

Title.

Cogitation.

(A deep thought whispers)

Have you ever sat under the sun and paused for a minute, to looked back over your life's many old pages?

Remembering how you once ran, with whom, and at what age?

Or have those old memories turned to dust?

Treasured moments shared with beloved family and friends. 

Even young and old love?

Moments of misery compounded by giant moments of victory.

People you once trusted, now resigned to your own pages of history?

So, I'll ask again and use this as a prompt within this prose.

Have you ever paused under the hot sun?

Sat in the shade and looked back at old memories, as they replayed?

Remembering happier times when you were having such fun?

The best ones, with maybe even those you miss, who are no longer around, as those incredible memories are eventually found? 

(C) Copyright John Duffy 

Cogitation: The action of thinking deeply about something; contemplation.

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Babylon

 

“Babylon” is a mythic, dark, and symbolic poem about a man who believes he has been spiritually claimed or doomed by an otherworldly femme-fatale figure named Babylon.

She is not just a woman — she represents temptation, obsession, spiritual corruption, and transformation.

The poem blends reality, memory, myth, and hallucination to show how desire and despair can consume a person until they lose themselves entirely.

This is a poem about:

A haunted past

A wandering soul

A seductive supernatural presence

The surrender of one’s identity

A descent into mystical obsession

The collapse of self leading to rebirth. (“a new Genesis”)

 (A lone voice whispers)

I once heard a wild story of a rebellious, seductive woman. Hailing from somewhere deliciously dark.

Down West Side, East Washington, DC.

While lost somewhere in the middle of a seemingly never-ending night.

Drinking expensive whiskey.

After I landed from leaving my old life behind in the army, in Corpus Christi,

Wondering, as I drowned my sorrows.

If my old love from Russia, Katalina Brzezinski.

Would ever miss me? 

You know the ones.

Those good old loose Mephistophelian nights. 

It's there I heard a story about a voodoo woman who whispers so softly, which said she hooks you captivatingly with magical words.

If she only spoke your name but once.

No matter what you're drinkin'.

No matter what you're thinkin'.

What you’re wearing.

Man or woman.

At the end of that long good old dark, seemingly endless, Mephistophelian night.

No matter how hard you fight.

How hard you look for her long shadow over your shoulders.

Left or right, after she's gone.

If she only speaks your name.

No matter what pain you’re going through at the time of your naming.

You’ll just be another poor, tainted soul; she’s just done with claiming. 

I once heard of a similar New Age mystic.

And now I know it was her. 

When I was younger, in my prime.

And drinking red wine, Lost in Downtown 

Memphis, Tennessee. 

Lost somewhere, talking to one of her devotees called Louie.

In a backyard club, filled with flashing strobe lights.

As The Eagles played live their mythical , Hotel California.

In the middle of that wild night.

That good old apocalyptic, Mephistophelian night.

He talked of a dark-eyed Bayou goddess. Of whom I should beware in these parts.

A woman so beautiful beyond all compare.

Who whispers so softly.

So captivatingly and seductively to all who dare stare.

And if she only speaks your God-given secretive name but once.

No matter what you're drinkin'.

No matter what you're thinkin'.

At the end of that dark, seemingly endless, voyeuristic night.

It’ll be your soul she’ll be wearing as a new fur coat.

Before riding out onto The Great Cosmic Plains.

In her red and black Ford Mustang GT as her Pale White Horse.

For she hails from the dangerous Age of Cataclysm's.

And when I was told that unholy truth, oh, why didn't I learn?

For her sweetly spoken words to me now herald a bringer of a new dawn.

Of divine encounters.

The furious fire and the crazy fury before The Great Sensuous Cleansing.

A new Black Genesis for the Flesh.

Before True Peace and Love can return.

I once spoke, beer-brave, to that wild, rebellious woman. Sitting with the aura of a blazing midday sun.

In the corner of an empty bar, smiling like a snake charmer. In Down West, East Washington, DC.

And as she drew me towards her.

Then whispered so softly.

So captivatingly and spoke my spirit name. Making me feel like I was drowning.

Swirling, lost in her soul's ever-expanding universe's bright lights.

These are now my last words that I'll ever type.

As I now patiently wait, like good old Louie.

Just now, another of the many new slaves of her New Age.

Waiting for her rhythmic, two-one-two knock. On my front door.

After she said my God-given secretive name that crazy night.

Outside Bar 32, as we French-kissed in the falling rain.

And all I can now do is wait in vain. 

For my poor soul has been well and truly claimed.

By the crow-haired goddess called Babylon.

And my soul-purging and grand cleansing will soon begin.

My own version of a new Genesis.

Now I'm alone but patiently waiting. 

Not hiding but just starin

g out in the long shadows. 

Watching for my dark-eyed Goddess.

Called Babylon to arrive.

As the morning sun rises.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

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Are you an Imajician?

 

Are you an Imajician?

(A lone voice whispers)

Have you visited the Wetlands of The Great Imajaca?

To the Others, called Imagination, and got drenched.

 A wild and sometimes dangerous place, The Mundane plead to peruse and use, but through social conditioning:

The fear of standing out in the rain and anxiety linked to feeling and experiencing newer visceral or sensational emotions. 

The Lands of The Great Imajaca may lead them to.

It may as well lie at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. 

(C) Copyright John Duffy

It's quite a deep piece.

Many I know personally aspire to write but are held back by what their peers may think.

The anxiety they feel linked to looking inside themselves through introspection.  

Using their imagination to create instead of posting already created memes on social media.

Imajician is simply a play on magician.

In this case, a conjurer of words.

An explorer into the wetlands of the human experience.

The dark and the light.  

A place many writers, maybe like you, visit, for

 you too are a magician.

Salute.

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A piece from The Covid Years

It is 4:33 a.m., and with this lockdown disrupting my sleeping patterns, I create stories.

Want to read one?

**The Old Seer**

(A lone voice whispers)

When I was so much younger

I once met a stranger while passing by a white picket fence.

A delicate, beautiful, complicated femme fatale 

Who waved and, in time, devoured my every breathing moment

Carefully taking down all those old erected barriers

With gentle, soft fingers

I used to protect myself with

Whenever I felt threatened 

And needed a strong defence.

We laughed carefree like young lovers.

Exchanging stories and tales of adulation

Eros would have been jealous of

In the middle of one wild night

We even created a safe white room where we 

Could stay 

Praying silently whenever we sat alone in our deep thoughts

Of each other watching Angels

To stay forever entombed

In that very white room, as the blushing  bride and groom

A place where Father Time even seemed to stand still and watch for 

We were so happy

But as time quickly passed, I got older

And my once-strong body got frailer 

Voices that have always followed me

Since I was willed into this maze, we all walk

And dare call it a life

Whispered

Let her go

She needs new flesh and blood to make her warm

To feel love for the rest of her life

Don't be cruel and deny her.

Something tangible to fill that deep void 

You might leave when you die

Someone to take that suitcase of broken emotions and dreams

You once carried and upon new, strong shoulders

Bear the heavy load

So I listened as I always do

Since they introduced me to her so long ago

Underneath her painted windows

By those unforgettable white picket fences

In these long days of the 21st Century, those voices seem to get louder as I get older. 

Whispers that have always guided and protected me

Now sung

She needs freedom to fly from this white room you've created

They whispered whenever I dreamed

She now uses a seemingly unbreakable chain of longing to stop herself from leaving its penitentiary.

They spoke

A lonely, golden-haired orphan girl, I loved

I tried to release them back into the real world

For I couldn't be her own West Side Story's

Tony

For in time, I knew I too would soon die

And she

Still standing alone 

Would have to pick up that heavy suitcase again

So as I stand here, where I always go 

At ten past midnight in the deep recesses 

In my mind, after a sip of mead

I just look up at the twinkling silvery stars across this great blue ocean

Between us and standing under that familiar old

Lampost of forever treasured, beautiful dreams

I can still see her beautiful smile

Dark seductive eyes and dressed in white lace

And hope she forgives me and knows this

I will always feel her deep love and always taste that thing 

I know I will, in quiet moments, miss

When that date comes, I know I must soon keep with my friend the Lord

And it's my time to die

That soft, invisible kiss I once shared with my teacher

Lost in precious moments in the Heartbreak Hotel

As we played love-struck under the goddess of love

Mesmerizing spell

It's been a while since we last spoke

I knew she would experience hurt and painful emotions

Would pour out of every inch of her skin

Is this the price 

I must now carry in trembling hands and tear-filled eyes

When before the Lord I kneel, asking for forgiveness

When he asks me about my worst mortal sins

Shall I tell him

Setting someone free to be all they can be

As they lay in someone else's arms

To give up love for someone to be happy 

Until their time is also due

As I doom myself to wait by the holy river alone

For I know in this new rebirth we can be forever happy 

For we are but soul twins

Now, as I sit alone in these early morning lights

Typing and fighting these old, broken emotions

Which always washes over me

I hope she finds someone new soon

To hold her

As I was once told to believe 

I was simply sent by God to help her see

And open her soul again

Is that the price of being a seer?

The cost of a broken heart 

To see the real truth in all these sad minutes, now we are forever

Emotionally and spiritually apart?

Copyright John Duffy

Only read if you want more love and understanding in your life.

 

A poem written like a ritualistic invocation—a short ceremonial prayer calling on natural forces (“Air,” “Land,” “Night,” “Day”) to bring love, understanding, and protection to the reader or speaker. 

It blends poetic imagery with spiritual or symbolic language.

Themes.

“Power of Air / Power of Land”

Air and Land (Earth) are two of the classical elements.

They symbolize:

Air: clarity, thought, communication; Land/earth: stability, grounding, safety.

Calling upon them suggests seeking mental clarity and emotional grounding.

“Hear my soul's holy writs.” “Holy writs” means sacred writings or intentions. This line expresses, listen to my deepest desires or inner truth.

“I pray for love and understanding, so come my way.” This is the core desire: to attract love, compassion, and deeper harmony with oneself or others.

“Power of Night / Power of Day”

Night and Day represent opposites—shadow and light, unconscious and conscious, and feminine and masculine energies. 

Calling both means invoking balance and wholeness.

“Hear what I say: I summon thee to protect me. So be it.” 

A closing affirmation: asking for protection from all directions and solidifying the intention with “So be it” (a ceremonial equivalent of “amen” or “let it be done”).

The P.S.—“By “reading it silently, you've summoned…”

This is a playful or mystical flourish.

It implies that simply giving your attention to the words activates their intention—reflecting a common spiritual idea: “Energy goes where attention flows.

The poem is a poetic ritual meant to feel magical.

A symbolic call for love, understanding, clarity, grounding, balance, and protection

A reminder that focusing on these qualities can draw them into your life.

Only read if you want more love and understanding in your life!

(A lone voice whispers after lighting a white candle. The invocation ends with the blowing out of the candle after the last line is recited)

Title.

The Prayer to The Elementals. Candēla Meditation.

(A lone voice whispers)

Power of Air, Power of Land.

Hear my soul's holy writs. I pray for love and understanding.

So come my way. Power of Night, Power of Day.

Hear what I say. I summon thee to protect me. So be it.

 (C) Copyright John Duffy.

P. S.

You do realize by reading it silently, you've summoned more love and understanding into your life?

Energy goes where attention flows.

Hey, are you living in a paradox?

 One for a quiet Sunday.

Salute.

(A lone voice whispers)

Are you living within a paradox?

I hope you are.

For loving deeply often involves suffering, sacrifice, or loss. 

And every form of love teaches us something but also takes something from us.

You do know, I know you do, that love contains many “small deaths”:

Heartbreak, letting go, change, vulnerability, fear, endings, guilt, and so many more.

So is love just another paradox?

A paradox where love is life-giving, but to love is also to “die” many times—through heartbreak, endings, or simply the vulnerability required to love someone?

This short poem compresses a whole philosophy of the human experience into two lines.

Haber amado en cualquier edad.

Es haber muerto de tantas maneras. (S)

Having loved at any age.

It's having died in so many ways. 

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Do we as writers create emotional bridges to be crossed by angels or devils?

 

Do we as writers create emotional bridges to be crossed by angels or devils? 

(A lone voice whispers)

As writers, are we all but seducers of the minds of others?

We silently kiss on the cheek in a strange interdimensional friendship?

As they read one of our poetic gifts?

Do we as writers create emotional bridges that need to be crossed or stepped upon to see a new view, like visionaries like Robert Frost?

For the readers to follow our trail of black fonts into the darkness or light?

We sometimes visit when developing new projects.

About inspirational strengths or themes of spiritual weakness?

Some may feel compelled to call us charlatans.

New reborn kings and queens of somewhere totally cosmopolitan.

Seducers of fragile minds, they hold us upright as just sinners and bringers of emotional tragedies.

Using poetry to create metaphorical histories as liquid oxygen.

But at the core.

The Very Nexus. 

Can our message also simply be this? 

Do more.

Live for any form of happiness and not be just another form of darkness.

Find and treasure a loving muse.

Paint touching, visceral pictures through strange, poetic stories.

Use music or poetry as your lyre and put them to good use.

Never lament old age as it tries to freeze your youthful body, once so beautiful and lithe.

So in ending.

In long days in the future past.

When your weary heart seems to grow heavy, and you seem to lose hope and feel all emotions:

Linked to love or compassion has suddenly died.

Look towards tomorrow's new eyes and be lifted in Dawn's rose-flushed arms.

And find a way to forgive others and yourself.

Even if you've cried in pain.

Then stand back and look deep into life's deep mirrors and always remember.

You have so much more to still give.

And embrace this thought denied to so many.

Some slowly.

Some suddenly.

As you read this.

You still have one of life's greatest gifts.

Be more positive. Share more light, not darkness.

And then feel proud, since so much good can still happen. Because you still live.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

This poem is a meditation on what it means to be a writer—especially a poet—and on the quiet but powerful relationship between writer and reader.

 It blends self-doubt, creative philosophy, and ultimately encouragement. 

Here’s the meaning broken down in a clear, reader-friendly way:

Writers as creators of emotional bridges:

The poem asks whether writers build “bridges” made of emotion—pathways readers can cross. 

Those who cross them might be “angels or devils,” meaning readers bring their own experiences, wounds, or intentions. 

The writer cannot control who comes, only that they create something that invites others in.

Writing as a form of seduction and intimacy:

By calling writers “seducers of the minds of others” and describing a “silent kiss on the cheek,” the poem suggests that writing is an intimate act. 

Reading becomes a quiet, interdimensional meeting between two strangers who may never speak but still connect.

The poetic tradition and the weight of influence:

The reference to Robert Frost implies that writers follow in the footsteps of visionary creators, leaving “trails” for readers to follow “into the darkness or light.” 

Poetry becomes a path toward understanding, transformation, or confrontation with one’s own emotions.

Doubt about the role of the writer:

Writers are sometimes seen as:

Charlatans.

Seducers of fragile minds.

Creators of emotional drama.

The poem acknowledges these criticisms but also hints that poets can feel like “reborn kings and queens,” powerful through creativity, not status.

The core message:

Do more. Live more. Love more.

After the philosophical self-questioning, the poem shifts into a motivational tone.

 It encourages the reader to:

Seek happiness.

Value creativity.

Appreciate inspiration and muses.

Stay youthful in spirit even as the body ages.

Keep making art.

Hope, renewal, and forgiveness:

The poem speaks to people who feel exhausted, heartbroken, or hopeless. It reminds the reader that:

Even when emotions feel dead, dawn (a new beginning) will return.

Forgiving others and oneself is necessary to heal.

Life still offers gifts—chief among them the fact that you’re still alive.

The ending emphasizes:

Being positive

Sharing light instead of darkness, Recognizing personal worth.

Understanding that as long as you live, possibility remains.

In essence:

This poem reflects on the purpose and power of writing, acknowledges 

the burden and beauty of influencing others, and ultimately turns into an uplifting call to live with more hope, creativity, forgiveness, and love.

Compartmentalized

 

 .A poem that explores the contrast between a person’s outward beauty and their hidden inner self. 

It reflects how someone can appear radiant, composed, or even perfect to the outside world, yet still carry private struggles, secrets, fears, or emotional depth that they keep locked away.

Despite this concealment, the speaker says they can see the whole person, including the parts that are meant to stay hidden.

So here's a meditation on how someone can present themselves beautifully to the world, yet hide deeper truths in a private, almost secret place.

That only a true friend knows.

Have you got a true friend who knows the real you?

Title.

Compartmentalized.

(A lone voice whispers)

As delicious-looking as you are to the whole watching world.

As glorious as a red rose in full bloom, I can still see all of you.

The real you.

Even your shadowy self, you carefully hide away within that darkened bedroom. .

Keeping it under strict lock and key and buried like Alexander the Great in the deep seas.

Of your eternal soul's tomb.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy

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Need help?

 

Hey, it's your old friend here reaching out after hearing what you're going through, after your mother passed away suddenly last night.

Your translucent memories are like the softest of raindrops when they suddenly fall.

I can only hope they remind you to call me, someone special.

On another level.

For sometimes, you just want to get soaking wet, using the alphabet to remember the good times.

But occasionally, you also want to find shelter with someone to help you forget all those painful memories tainted with heartbreak and neglect.

By the visitation of all bad intentions, subtly introduced by the so seductive and invisible Devil ~ from another dimension.

Pick up that phone when I ring.

(C) Copyright John Duffy

The Voicemail

 

In the end, amid all the complications of life, is the most important thing simply love?

Not blame, money, not control, not trying to fix things—just love?

Below is a monologue of release, love, and emotional maturity.

The speaker:

Misses someone deeply and now accepts that they couldn’t fix everything.

Understands that surrender brings peace and chooses love over bitterness.

And hopes both of them will find love again—someday.

 It is a farewell, but a warm one—not a goodbye filled with regrets or anger, but one filled with hope.

Sometimes letting go is all you can do, but so is how you let go. Salute.

Title.

The Voicemail

I do miss you, you know, and after all these years apart, I've finally picked up the courage to tell you this.

For I now know your heart can become tired, wading through emotional fires that you are unable to fix.

So I've learned beauty sometimes lies in surrender.

For in the end, I'm now prepared to accept peace by sharing two crucial things with you:

 Helplessness is sometimes part of the journey in this life, and we might have to be gracious and just embrace it.

For there is no gain in resisting it, since in the escalation of emotions in your internal battle.

You will no doubt renounce the very obvious, which could help deliver your acceptance and deliverance.

The other is just Love.

I now try to step in tune to Love, within our memories together, for I know Karma will offer little peace to ease the pain.

Because as long as you create memories, yesterday stays forever in someone's soul.

And as long as you create Hope, in doing so, tomorrow beckons with a smile.

For when, or if, or how, you finally find true Love.

Every day could be glorious.

Just keep looking, as I am, for love will surely come when She's ready.

(C) John Duffy

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Be a Warrior

 No matter who tries to discourage you, your goals and dreams are valid.

Your worth comes from within.

You can rise beyond negativity.

Your journey has meaning.

So here's a piece just for you as an affirmation of inner power:

“If you've been criticized and doubted, rise anyway.

For you're strong, guided, purposeful, and unbreakable.”

Use it as a declaration of self-belief in the face of adversity — a reminder to hold on to one’s identity and purpose, even when others misunderstand or try to diminish it.

If your higher self had a voice, what would it say?

Something like below, I hope.

Salute.

Title:

Be a Warrior.

Mirroring from the Abyss.

(A lone voice whispers)

My name doesn't matter, for 

My narrative you may try your hardest to shatter.

You may smirk at my goals and dreams.

You may try to erase them with cruelly whispered jibes, but I have an alibi.

For I'm a warrior, just fiercely striding forth.

Conquering fear and doubts daily.

I wonder upon criticism's invisible shores and still overcome so much more.

I am an immortal composed of sinews saturated with the ever glowing bright stars.

Look at me.

You green-eyed beauties.

Watch me rise above your worthless words and cries.

Watch me soar as I pursue dreams and yours just linger confused and die.

For I'm Artemis or Hercules rolled into one.

I'm my moon and everlasting sun.

The winds just silently whisper my name.

The stars shine, guiding my way as I run.

I'm just me.

I always rise, whatever the crowd says.

And it's that sweet thought I'll continue, until the end of my days.

For I'm a Warrior, just sent by my God, to help guide others.

As I find my way.

(C)

Copyright John Duffy 

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The White Room

 

Poetry from The Great In-Between

(A lone voice whispers) 

As I entered my 

Secret White Room

Late last night

A place I constructed the Great In-Between to relax

There, lo and behold, on my black leather chair

Dressed all in white and asleep

Was

A luscious, shimmering form. 

As I approached 

Its glistening seductive shape.

I saw it suddenly

Shake off its

Mesmerising alabaster cape. 

Before I could choose to quickly escape.

It revealed

Its true inner self. 

She looked so luscious from head to toe. My heart whispered that now wasn't the time to be scared or to run or go.

 Her raven-colored hair and sleeping dark eyes whispered of deep and guilty pleasures, and luscious wild places.

I must be bold and audacious to be invited to visit.

 My inner thoughts sang like a seductive Barry White, tha late night. 

As my flesh adamantly cried out and demanded that I must go on.

As I approached, she stirred.

Moving in her disquieting sleep. I saw a red sign covered in gold leaf butterflies imprinted on it.The black studded chair's framework.

It simply said

The Seductive One

Welcomes you

Trace your fingertips

Across her crimson

Red lips

If they taste sweet

Your soul 

She will tame and slowly eat

As I gazed at

Her magnificent naked form,

At a dark-haired beauty

Above all worldly

Norm

I felt adventurous

And boldly reached out. To slowly trace and follow as instructed.

The contours of her

Luscious red lips

As I did so

Her warm mouth suddenly

Engulfed my shaking fingertips, knuckle-deep, as she gyrated.So sensuously in

Her deep sleep

Feeling braver, I ran my other shaking hand. Across her soft, silky skin, 

And she responded by Moaning. Like she demanded and needed a drop of more immoral dark sin. By sucking harder and deeper With her sharp teeth. 

As they gripped my fingertips, hardening skin

Her form

Now moved

Undulating

Like a licentious belly-dancing

Queen

Making me wonder

What would happen now

In this 

My all-time favourite lucid deep dream

At that very moment

She suddenly rose. Her body emanated such sweet-smelling pheromones. I felt empowered to reach out and replace my fingertips 

With my hungry dark lips. And when I wrapped my strong hands around

Her so so very soft hips.

Strange Mediterranean-type music suddenly started playing as she whispered. Take me now over this black leather studded chair. A place where dark

Dreams can come true.

Don't you recognize me yet? It's me 

Your only goddess. The one you always dream of in all your unspoken prayers.

Sit me on that black leather chair and kneel before me 

And eat all you need

Before I feed. And only then

After that holy moment of our souls merging,

Can we no longer pretend? 

For this, Secret White Room Is my lair, 

My floating Castle between everywhere.

 Just renounced all others but you. And hidden in the many folds of time.

Where you can always return So I can feed and you can satisfy your soul's dark needs.

 A place where I can claim you.

Again and again

As just mine

Then she sat back in that 

Black leather chair. 

Before I took my place.

I can always remember

In that silent transmutation of sexual dark energy,

In that very pivotal moment

I knew then

What all starstruck lovers 

Regardless of gender, age, or creed,

All silently know.

Once your tongue is allowed entrance

Into loves delicious-tasting fountain

Once you've had a 

Sweet luscious taste

A drop of heavenly

Ambrosia

Your life with any other will just turn into dark strands of emotional dust and seem to diminish.

 To slowly blow in the uncaring four winds and eventually go to waste.

It's why I always return to this White Room.

For she holds total dominion in it. 

After praying for sleep as the nighttime clocks. 

Scattered all over the house, I keep.

Approaches twelve

 

To once again see her standing naked.

The Goddess I now worship 

With all that long

Crow black hair

Standing and just waiting

Before sitting back down into that black leather studded chair

And demanding

I have another taste

So she can feed. In these milliseconds as I pray for sleep.

Before I begin to kneel and to satisfy and pacify all her dark desires

And unspoken needs in that secret White Room

I know deep down, what all her other slaves know and keep hidden from all others.

To see.

 And in silent moments alone, think, as their soul shrinks, as it gets weaker. 

She now has power. Total power 

Total power over me.

(C) Copyright John Duffy