Statue Man

Looking at him as a piece of art.

Angular marble cut with loving hands,

A piece of art regretfully untouched

In a velvet rope cage

Keeping the b*****s in heat at bay;

 

But not I; the privilege is mine

To dust  and buff

And, in private moments, caress;

To worship with touch;

 

Oftentimes with hands off,

I gaze into what should be stony eyes

But were never hard or cold as such to me,

Maybe they are magma -

Molten rock.

 

A trance could last for hours,

Staring into my own soul

Which stared back at me

From hot lava eyes.

 

The Visual Description says hazel

Though the sculpture lacks colour;

Defiantly, they are always green

 to me as moss on bark is -

Earthy, but still green -

Certainly not hazel.

 

When I smooth my palms

against the stone heart,

It melts, like the molten-eyes,

And comes alive under my hands;

 

Heart, eyes and sculpture,

Vibrating with vitality,

Arms encircle me,

Press me against marble -

No longer cold;

No longer marble.

 

Fingertips trace the contours of my flesh,

Like strong branches stroking the sky,

So carefully - teasingly ,

Reaching the Big Blue

And touching her - just barely.

 

A sigh squeezes out of my chest -

Winds from the west -

Urging the branches to stir

Touching my breath;

A gentle hurricane at the root of my soul.

 

And when those limbs comply,

There's no turning back;

Senses erupt between us

In a magnetic pulse.

 

Body's every hollow and sharp angle,

Mysterious, deliciously shady,

Pulling me in deep

Over my head, I sink into the embrace;

 

The perfume of flesh

Engulfs me in cloud;

Sent of confidence -

Salty and sweet, the ideal treat.

 

A rumbling purr,

Untamed and instinctual,

Blows against my hearing

Like a lion revving it's engine.

 

The feel of lips on my ear tickles my core,

But lips on my own can be pure bliss,

If bliss can be arousing;

This bliss tastes of mint,

These lips were ready for this all along.

 

Not a statue, but a man

With a talent for plucking budding flowers

From Eucalyptus branches;

Undervalued, but a talent nonetheless;

 

He cradles my flowers close to his heart,

Strokes every petal, cherishes each bud,

With affection and adoration;

He refuses to release them for even a moment;

 

None other has witnessed or brought forth,

Understood or kindled

The intimate response I can

In this statue of a man.

Reviews

[Hiddenfire]

one of your best in my opinion, probably my new favorite. It's something that gently sucks you into it so that even if you weren't completely taken in at the beginning by the end you couldn't leave. I love the descriptive, the moss being earthy but green still is a perfect example of that. All around it was captivating, there really isn't much more I can say except that I really enjoyed the read and thanks for posting it.

[Charlie]

That's absolutely gorgeous! The narrator can see the statue man for who he really is, he or she looks beyond the things everyone else sees in him and truly loves him. At least, that's what I took away from it. Bravo!~

[Thomas Fitzgerald]

"In this statur of a man", how perfect an ending, if ever I've read one, I don't know if it was your intention, but as a reader, I got a most surprising erotic reaction to the piece,w ell done,g ood read.