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...
Copyright © Jimmy Brouwers | Year Posted 2013
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