It becomes challenging when my muse entices me
to write as I truly see it, or wish it to be.
Like quail in the bush at sunset sing love songs,
she seduces my soul.
Each night after hush is bestowed on my abode,
with elixir of brandy cascading from my decanter,
pouring three-fingers into ancient chalice.
My sights lay's upon her spiritual being.
Phantoms, I have been told,
visit my sanity.
Preying upon my dignity and philosophy.
But only I see the truth.
Her dark shadow encasing my flesh.
Precum on my fingers.
Her breasts nurse me,
shrouded in cold mist.
Feeding my tomes with scribble,
Tossing back three fingers of brandy.
Like a metronome swaying,
my quill dabbles.
Rhythmically my penis throbs,
into wanton pleasures.
Masturbating into sunset.
As quail in the bush sing love songs.
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<a href="https://www.lushstories.com/stories/love-poems/quail-sing-love-songs.aspx">Quail Sing Love Songs</a>