Love Poem: Valley of the Virgins
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Written by: R Scorpious

Valley of the Virgins

Valley’s of sleep that hold on to virtue through the years,
Distant from the arms of  cities where vice and lust rule governments,
Where social values preach chastity to innocent hearts,
Where the earths depressions shelter Mr. and Mrs. Purity,
A v-shaped river valley of the virgins who roam there,
With rivers streaming from cities to valley’s that bleed desire,
Trapped they are by steep gradients with steep walls and narrow bottoms,
The cherubim keep shame societies there like puppets until the cherries blossom 
and ripen,
Valley’s of cherries tucked away by pseudo morality, un-pollinated and stamen 
locked up like relics,
Botanical gardens of exotic fruits and sacred flowers,
Kept there by valleys of locked up atriums where keys are closely watched by 
bishops,
Vestal virgins with holy books as bosoms and nothing else,
 In river valleys where streams of life’s juices are currents that flow in all directions,
Where church robes run from river baptismal’s of full immersion,
A sexual awaking blocked by dams that reach the heavens,
celestial ornaments of purity hung on swinging trees like botanical gardens to be 
picked, 
with winds that push and push until they are broken from branches falling below to 
rivers that carry them away from brother and sister virtue,
sexual appetites subdued by chastity belt covered mouths that kill truth searching,
Sexual liberation, and the separation of the spirit hold separate experiences like the 
sun and the moon,
finding the secrets that make the soul the soul requires a boat to carry souls 
through rites of passage,    
Horns are blown in glacial valleys to shake melting ice that flows leaving sediments 
of intimacy behind to germinate in spring,
Human nature is the flower pollinated by romanticizsim that breaks away from 
stems of adolescence and dogmatic aged tree branches,
Floating away in winds and water’s to cities where guilt is thrown off bridges,
rocks tied to feet where it sits at river bottoms like the Ganges,
only to resurface at the end of  life’s death with purity and wisdom.