Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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This faith awarded is a gift of trust so welcome, so cherished. A tire swing of joy, were childhood never ending. A belief in the sanctity of day and healing through touch, like kissed booboos for even the deepest abrasions. These lips, tongue and hands understand healing. They understand the true purpose of their creation when assigned to the task of nourishing through pleasure, not merely skin deep, because oceans aren’t simply the waves skittering across a briny epididymis, no they are of the same depth as any one of the thinking, feeling, realized adults stumbling around on dry land, each with sea fathoms of insecurities and woe churning up dust and obscuring sea bed hearts. Guidance through the murk is possible but the pressure is so severe that few will brave the journey, so the surface is merely where the start begins, an intensity of light and heat that bleeds through the darkest parts of a soul and releases willingness and beliefs in heaving, ecstatic breaths. The arrival of faith’s reward is resurrection from lost wander, the bliss of certainty coupled with the high tide of lust; each quake of a sea body is a tsunami surging, cresting, purging with breathless delight. When exhausted slumber arrives, so too shall the truth that while one heals, so too does the healer. Hands, hearts, sex merged into an endless sea reflecting stars of infinite pasts, of gorgeous futures.


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