A Letter To My Imaginary Friend

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I cannot begin to conceive
what it could be for us
to delve into this sphere
of our Sense and Sensation,
to swim gracefully together
in such an Ocean of Delight,
to enter so delicately into
this ancient Tantric mystery unexplored,
held if only in a simple clutch of yab-yum
as we surrender to rising energies
spoken of for æons in hidden legend;

freeing ourselves to boundless waves
of wonder and surprise,
upon crests of ecstasies
that promise only perfect unison for us both,
as we mount and surmount
in the rising intensity of our open display
— now quivering, then shuddering
as the serpentine conflagration wells up inside,
its tantalizing flames licking up within
and overflowing from without
as we transcend all previous limits,
only to thrust beyond the pulse and rhythm
of all beloved, poetic expression;
convulsing and then erupting
into our delicious feast of prurience
that should satisfy all appetites and thirsts,
yet would leave us
only ever more ravenous and wanting,
insatiably hungering
for more and more
and never-ending more,
performing to exquisite perfection
each new act within this,
our epic play.

Page 4 Of 6

Copyright © Ron Koster/Psymon, 1996-2010.
All Rights Reserved.


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Prologue
Earth: Winter Grounds
Air: Spring Breeze
Fire: Summer Heat
Water: Autumn Mist
Epilogue
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