These throws of rapture
Kindly hands caress broken bones
Hands that cut through parched soul
Like a sharpened stone
What is it that we leave in these [bad word] moments Sentiment
These curtains fall and wrap us up in our rigor mortis
The nimble fingers of the black one
His majesty of cold, courting me into sweet abeyance
The malign steely touch of needle thorns massing
And directing their gaze on my misfiring neurons
The vestiges of my sickening life
Of my loves, my crowning glories
The pain and poetry of a spent existence
He coils up inside me now
Kissing me and whispering sweet nothings
The words of release
The words I crave as I lose all
As the clotted mass of cumuli nimbus
Bows his head in salute.
As I claw upwards
As I fall back into oblivion
And his words speak out amongst the frightening turbulence
Those final fleeting words I coax from his abhorrent throat
Will you join my owsla