She sighs as a flute, softly emitting silver echoes of her rapture. This is the sacred song of a female, a woman, whose fragrance is rising to the mind, where petals fold back, releasing a white-gold energy into infinity.
The rushing of the red transforms through the heart to higher thought, where sexual feelings become Goddess and God fused. They exchange their buds of desire, mouth to mouth. The membrane of self-protection splits, and the fluids of love rush out with delight. They possess.
The cries of divine utterance settle to frail weeping, as a rose who has received a full shower of dew. In the pleasant half sleep that follows, she cannot completely realize that she has partaken of the Goddess. She was, for a moment of time, a Goddess. Did she not leave her mortal body and flee to the habitation of spirits? Was she also spirit? Then is she not Goddess? Why did she return to earthly flesh after drinking with him? Perhaps, as two serpents of love they weave and dance around each other, until their heads and eyes see as one. Their fangs pass on to each other the venom of ecstasy, and they reach across the limitless space in a blurred dream. Therefore, in this life they are able to touch briefly the Goddess and God they are and glimpse what they might be if they awaken.
She lies with the leaves on the forest floor, struck by love, and left to continue her days. Another time she will meet him with whom she shares the eons of the spirits, and they will writhe, unchained to the passages of flesh. Peace is hers because she sought her male and he called for her name to the mountains and the winds, and requested the mermaids to deliver to him the woman he needed to show him how to be a God.
There is much misery for a woman who cannot find the balm of their soul in all the countless males she ventures upon. Emotionally, she believed she was not a fortress, she was weak, and therefore met the beasts of the world defenseless. Why didn't she see that she was a Goddess and born to the earth to take her throne? She let many men enjoy her honey, her precious nectar. There was no price for it except a pledge of love. As the morning came, her liquid had been robbed; her face in the reflecting mirror was as the ebb tide. Over time, she became the comfortless hag. Her beauty, once as a translucent magnolia, withdrew into the deep cracks of the desert. Waterless, she could only offer prairie prickles to those who went by, and, equally, no one gave her a chalice of hope.
Yet, beyond the rivers and woods, another Goddess spoke with a perfumed spirit. A Goddess who waits for her lover, flouncing through many gardens of bleeding flowers so she can understand the pain of intimacy. Her feet are bruised from running away.
Patiently she has kept her sweet ointment in a golden jar seeded with pearls. No man had satisfied the value, for which she asked divinity. This Goddess beheld herself in an inner mirror? the secret voice whispered of mysteries, which are to be seen within the crystals. Observing the men of the earth, she saw searing hot auras of red passion and proud phalluses that spun off energy to the four directions like bolts from the hand of Thor. Rapidly, these unattached flames imploded, unable to shoot across the dimensions. They were nothing of themselves but a primitive urge. So, the Goddess knew the bursts of man, and wished to meld with a selected one. A God, who would be searching for a higher entrance; not to moisten the earth with his fertility, but fire himself through the veils of the universe while she sang on the flute of her expression.
If there seems to be a shortage of Gods, it may be the fault of the woman you presently are. You must work with attention for your desire to manifest. You have to dine with the spirits of the upper realms to become at one. Light their candles, drink willingly of their wine and devour their food with all honesty. Command your Higher Self to direct your compass. Open your front door and sweep the steps sadistically, for today you caught sight of yourself. There shall be no more mercy for the pitiful, godless being you were. Write your advertisement in the air so every spirit may assist you: Goddess seeks God.
Esmerelda Jones... writer of old curiosities
Victoriana, Victorian Swoons, Victorian Erotica