Industry of decadence

 

Words become a composition en masse
when sung from the soul of a gifted poet.
I immerse myself in a beautifully tragic love poem
and my body sways in harmony with the dulcet melody.

His desire dwells within a forbidden place
where tears are born of craquelure elegance,
transformed into priceless jewels to adorn the cheek
of a recherché woman. He calls them exquisite.

Our silver tongues dance to a libretto of lovers,
a tribal cadence that embodies the ferine rhythms
of passion and lust. I come to him in need,
I cling to his perdition as it builds into the perfect storm.

We taste the flames of anguish as it feeds
our rapacious hunger and those hands, those lips,
the things he does to me.....
I swallow his savage demand; I savor the pain.

The way he loves me and the way he fucks me is suffering
and I do suffer for him.