Neon Grind
Dare to pen a Sapphic verse, with rhyme, Threads of NYC’s pulse, ballet's grace sublime, On neon-lit ledges where dreams dance and climb— A challenge for the poet's mind.
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In the pulsing heart of New York City's forbidden core, The seventies throbbed, a primal, untamed roar, Two women, lured by the siren call of night, Her laughter, a searing caress, igniting the light. . We stumbled into a den of whispered sin, Her touch on my skin, a command to begin, Eyes smoldering, dark pools of liquid desire, The world spun, a fever dream of neon fire. . Bodies entwined, swaying in the smoky haze, The city's heartbeat, our rhythm, a sensual blaze, We moved, a seductive dance, each step a tease, A promise of pleasures, waiting to be seized. . The air hung heavy, charged with temptation, Her fingers traced my curves, a searing sensation, My pulse raced, a frenzied, primal beat, Breaths mingled, hot and heavy, indiscreet. . Under the dim, pulsing lights, the first dance unfurled, A wanton display of passion, inhibitions hurled, We swayed, hips locked, breathless and bold, Her hands roaming, possessive, uncontrolled. . Her body pressed against mine, a deliberate provocation, We spun, lost in a whirlwind of lust and temptation, Every twist and turn, a silent conversation of need, Our movements fluid, hypnotic, an unspoken deed. . The music throbbed, driving us closer to the edge, Sweat glistened on our skin, the world a distant ledge, We moved as one, consumed by the rhythm's sway, Each step a spark, igniting the neon ballet, The dance a promise, dark and intoxicating, Leaving us breathless, wanting, aching, waiting.
I still love that era!
Challenge conquered! Excellent piece!