Feeling the thorn of the quill masturbating on my soul
as your tongue tastes me. My cunt plays succubus
to your cock’s stiletto. In my analysis non sequitur
as the candles crowed loudly. With the weight of the
wildebeests lashing my wrists in Twilight’s sado-
masochism. Missing lyrics of obsession. Fraying the
amatory of arousing fires. Lusting for the truss
haunting the soul, listening. Colliding with seduction
with the four-string cello. Giving in to the bow with
a rush of depravity dripping from my lips. screaming,
encore. With self-inflicted insanity of the thorning
throes tithing the tongue. Bound to the withers of
darkness and despair, soaring to the heights with
nothing left to score. No longer a corpse only carrion
for the dead of a longwinded torso screaming,
“You took my heart.”
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“the thorn of the quill masturbating my soul” — amazing imagery and so original. I can feel that, and the stiletto cock.
Haunting poetry…
xoxoxo
Thank you kindly.
I appreciate that… seriously.
You’re welcome. It’s good to see you over here, Adagio.
I think my welcome is worn out on the other site.
Why would you say that?
Why would I say what?
Why do you think your welcome is worn out?