Of Priest

Your speaking voice reaches deep into my throat,  
subtle rifts start to form along my skin coat,  
your fingers are frozen, your palms are ablaze  
caressing my core so it dances and floats.  
   
Accustomed to feasting from the mundane,  
charming only when seeking constant appraise,  
seeing sunlight as raw power that brands    
the profane, they being your personal cystic vein.  
   
Not all priests are blood hungry vampires,  
some have developed their own personal glands,  
ripping away every stereotype or trench coat  
I joke not, so please do understand.  
   
Hold a firm grip when shaking a hand,  
some call it laying on of hands.  
   
--.. --- ... / -.- .. .- / -.-. ..- .-.. - ..- ...          
        
Embedded onto electrical surges by Infernus,          
Inspired greatly by personal experience.