Throes

Titbit scars to feed emotions crimson; In Her gloomy heart by her wet season. As Her solstice endorses a greasing red, She revels off a goad instead... To each bliss cusp she gladly deflowers, I cavort rue to each rose's hour; As fingertips writhe in snow-white flesh the sate of Love's cappella caress... My emotions ascend to a God with black wings, And soon this soul taken from pentacle rings. But first I am descending before Her throne, Her chest still racks that abyssal stone! Prurient crucifixion of an annulled witch hunt. Nascent Shangri to Her mire c*nt. Her emotions strong enough to splendour fires, This libertine forges Her foreplay desires. Taken of the pulpit by a tyrant crevasse, Splay out on an Oratory's cerise glass. As she leers like the silver Moon... I sprawl to Her with greatest tempt, Only for me to feel contempt! I scream ''You are my salvator'' as, Blood pours where my sanguinary blade caress...