Just Like Oil Off The Hand

     Like a song that cunnilingers on a lovers tongue, 

and yet tastes of another tune, 

memories from a past life 

experienced but a handful of years 

bygone, 

like Cranberries on Blueberry Hill, 

out of place 

in this space and 

timelessness, 

which is nothing but the unfolding verse, 

the one verse, 

a 

uni-versal song 

of life 

where division equals 

none, 

and that which knows no other 

still awaits 

its lovers embrace 

with a taste like a breastful'a 

grapes, 

whilst the past hinders its 

presence 

as all there is, has been 

or can be, 

until it is washed away 

by the falling rain, 

gradually, 

just like oil off the hand . . .

Written by: 

The Unfolding

Asis.