Between the Stingers

Trust, like a pitiless whore-master, grins as between the sheets and at my breasts, he suckles. Though Cupid lauds' the joy, I feel only stings. The manic moon shivers to shriek-like violins as trusting seed is split and son-less my knees buckle mother-less street urchin blanched, impatient, sin. In sympathy the sun pales night's mood swings seeking to caress and hold with a fractured chuckle love's exhausted, and misspent, ripened lingerings To the dying day and I, cry of might-have-beens ivory white my ice hands, my bleeding knuckles Trust like a pitiless whore-master grins Though Cupid lauds' the joy, I feel only stings.