The inkwell tumbles over welkin and wit; her seething susurrations invite slumberous disregard

The puissant voluptuary, the sadist, the con, swallows me with magmatic lips, melting resolve and self-control

Fervid angst transudes through saucers into lacustrine stains and chilling horripilation; restrained by fists of silk and ichor ropes

She chases me through my tenebrous id, past the inescapable eyes of lecherous flies, the cunning guise of treacherous lies, and the emotional cries of sanguinolent dyes

Her torment reigns until sunlight laves the room, and she discards the ossified remains of this tremorous calyx

I watch in awe, rent and raw, through verdant diaphaneity, as others wake from restful repose, and I wonder how…

Yet, ever alone, I anticipate nightfall, lachrymal, and her unwelcome company

art: veil by Peterio