Soft....

Soft….

 

Soft light filling

the room with no

particular beam.

 

Soft warm air

wafts in without a current;

just being there.

 

Soft skin clings

to soft, yielding flesh. 

 

Soft whispers of

promises and dreams

made on soft

pillows.

 

Soft touch

of finger tip on finger

tip.

 

Soft gaze. 

 

Soft mind made up

with no power

or passion.

 

Going into the day

 

softly.

Reviews

[James William Dyer]

"Soft light filling

the room with no

particular beam." I love that stanza, and the rest of the poem. This line produced an awkward image of skin draped over skin, "Soft skin clings

to soft, yielding flesh. "