Death.

At first I was a gooey thought-
A liquid desire with a moist sheath.
One that grew for nine pained seconds
Till a little blood twisted in the flaccid fellow
That wept a little innocence
Through a fleeting, light spanking.
 
Hairs grow evident, as does shrill sweat
Which teases the outlets – breached in secret
Touch and taste become twinning gods
That coronate heavy panting
Through a fiery, deep lament.
 
Temperamental diving, with only swoops
Can I rise to tease mastery with my tongue?
And grip something concrete to find permanency?
That will never be so,
Through movement, hard becomes soft.
 
Now, I have peaked, and I trickle the
Nectars of my life, my awkward elixir is seeping
Away, never to find an Atheists’ afterlife, dampness,
And abruptly, everything becomes pearly
That covers the skin
Through a cracking knee.
 
Climax has dulled, molten forces
Have turned to a hostile crustiness, which drones
Upon the ceilings like adhesive- breathing spiders
That droop from nets:
 
Through passion comes death.