The Bad, Bad Boy

My Dear, sweet China Flower :

The Oriental fragrance of you lingers on, it has permeated the very fibers of my mind and my home.

I am, oh so very sorry for over stepping boundaries, going beyond my place, in your life.

I am sorry for letting my passions, my desires become the flames that defiled your beautiful innocence.

I really feel bad for the BAD, BAD thing I did to you and for leaving you unsatisfied.

I am also, so very sorry for pollinating - planting my seeds deep within - your beautiful flower,

and for doing so without your desire, your consent as I slipped between your stems and into your dreams .

I do hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive this old fool for - in the heat of moments of desire to taste,

to savour the flavour of your liquid honey, honey that felt so good I could not resist - defiling

the innocent beauty of your womanhood, in desecrating a beautiful Flower, of China.

All to satisfy my own lecherous appetites, appetites that violated the purity and innocence in you,

broke the trust, that I believe you placed in the hands of this foolish old stranger.

I am truly sorry for my acts of indiscretion, and even more so for my not

bringing to fruition, the blossoming of your beautiful flower, feeling it, seeing it explode

in a brilliance of rainbow colours, that would have lit up the hours of our late night, early morning.

Please do not think to badly of me, my Dear .

LOVE BILL .

As I look into the above, I come to realize that I painted a picture of what must appear, to you the reader, an aggressive, forceful, selfish, inconsiderate,monster who is lurking among the shadows of my rhyme ?, / poetry ?, but let me assure you that that is as far from the truth as is the closest universe .

The above poem ?, / rhyme ?, came on the heels of my lack of understanding, an inability to read the signs and the over active imagination of this author as I was looking into the beauty of the first times I made love to this Beautiful China Flower, in a bright light at night's darkest hour and again in the soft glow of dawn's first sight of passion's delight .

The truth be told, taking poetic license, an active imagination, lack of verbal communication - for there is this language and cultural difference as well as only three months of Canadian culture and the English language under her belt, at the time - told me one story while I neglected to take into account all the none verbal expression that came, and came from this Chinese Flower, as she expressed in the silences of her physical participation a truth and that truth has blossomed many, many times since under the green thumb of this old gardener, so what is the true reality ?, the rhyme ?, / poem ?, this statement ?

In the light of this, the poem ?, /rhyme ?, does not a reality make . A monster ?, a fool ?, a blind man ?, an artist ?, does any of this tell what this author could be under all my words ?