The song pulsates on and on in its sensual persistence
His thrumming sexual
Weaving a spell
Intentionally rattling secret places
Aiming his notes
He’s a dead on shot
The throng reels uncontrollably
Their hips reflective of the true emotion
Tapping rare and primitive instincts
Freudian bliss
Writhing beings out of control
The heat of the floor unbearable
The sweet smell of sweat permeates the hall
Tears, screams, and wails
Bodies chafing against one another
Each indifferent to the touches
Strangers in a dance of desire
The object ahead of them
All that matters is the man
The man with the guitar
Making them feel his musk
Wishing they could feel more
Longing for just one touch
They reach
Their faces frozen in lustful expressions
Just too far away to make it reality
They are lost in their fantasy