Vanilla Spice

My preference? Vanilla please,

Don’t titillate, don’t try to tease,

Don’t peer beneath my made-up skin,

I’m not prepared to let you in.

I’m not prepared to let you see,

My yearning, burning, spicy me,

The me who does not dance in rain,

As day on day, the rain grows plain.

Instead, my feet await the hail,

Who’s magic lets my soul set sail,

And seek to find in waters new,

Fresh colours of the warmest hue,

Or let the wind whip through my hair

To smell the mysteries of the air,

And wake my heart to all that is,

Seizing that disquieting fizz,

To feed my thirst to feel it all,

Like Eve, I would have chased the fall,

I would have sunk my teeth right in,

And never could I call it sin.

I see in ultraviolet light,

And thrill to noises of the night.

I long to feel myself set free,

To step aboard where I can be,

Take my helm, my map, my compass,

Set my course for mirth and rumpus,

And with an open mind explore

The spiderweb beyond my door.

Alas I am too often shy,

And seek to hide, and not to fly.

The instincts of an introvert,

Leave inner wants to gather dirt,

Desires to mildew and to mould,

And heated dreaming to grow cold.

But mould is wondrous when you look,

And life abounds in every book.

The spiderweb inside my home

Is magic with no need to roam.

Though sometimes from these well-worn rails

I hear the billow of those sails,

I keep on making the safe choice,

And go on choosing to rejoice

In vanilla’s gentle flavour,

Which I take the time to savour,

The spicy breeze there on my tongue,

The taste of songs I’ve not yet sung,

For though she seems unexotic,

Taste her well and she’s erotic.

*

This was written for Poppy's Prompts #3, below: