This week I write prose poetry. That is a tough one. Lately few prose pieces I have posted elsewhere, have been taken as poetry. I should be flattered really but I intended those as prose! In the simplest of words, prose poetry is a heightened piece of prose which reads like poetry. It has all the imagery, similes, metaphors of poetry but it has no line breaks. To know more about it, please do click here. To have an example of what is really a prose poetry, read this piece.
I hope what I have written here qualifies. If not, all of you are welcome to critique it. I would appreciate it very much.
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Ambrosial
Burrowing her face in the crook of his neck, with the luxury of satin sheets gloriously beneath her, she inhaled him to her core. Softly touching her, sharp pleasure shooting through him, he raised her face to his, his hazel-brown eyes looking and looking his fill, piercing her very soul. Her dark sleep- smudged eyes opened so wide and he wished to drown in them. Turning her around, he placed her on the feathered pillows. He lightly kissed her eyes, her pert nose, moving on to her ears, tracing the shell-like crevices, slowly traversing her sweet cheeks to her honey mouth. Stopping, tasting the essence of her; his hands seeking, pausing, moving... The soft light cast a shadow around them, lacy curtains billowing, the orange moon looking on and blessing. His beard tickling her deliciously to life, her warm hands restlessly moving all over him, wanting, needing, desiring all of him to the very depths of her. Then she woke up...alone.
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Now with line breaks: each single word is intact.
with the luxury of satin sheets gloriously beneath her,
she inhaled him to her core.
Softly touching her,
sharp pleasure shooting through him,
he raised her face to his,
his hazel-brown eyes looking and looking his fill,
piercing her very soul.
Her dark sleep- smudged eyes
opened so wide and he wished to drown in them.
Turning her around,
he placed her on the feathered pillows.
He lightly kissed her eyes, her pert nose,
moving on to her ears,
tracing the shell-like crevices,
slowly traversing her sweet cheeks to her honey mouth.
Stopping, tasting the essence of her;
his hands seeking, pausing, moving...
The soft light cast a shadow around them,
lacy curtains billowing, the orange moon looking on and blessing.
His beard tickling her deliciously to life,
her warm hands restlessly moving all over him,
wanting, needing, desiring all of him
to the very depths of her.
Then she woke up….alone!
