Prick the skin and the discoloration of rage seeps, oozes, tumbles out upon fibre, pylon and glass dome;
Lick the sin, thus the elaboration the Mage chooses
collapses to weep, muse, and fumble about onwards, ever onwards...
home!
But closely, more closely peer, and see that this is not ichor
but nectar here;
And that this juicy, juicy flesh could not provide were it not for the wound.
All that which you mostly fear to lose...
would you die for my dear?
And in dying gain an open hand...
Now, as our fate-lines mesh and rage subsides, we spin, and weave and loom;
For it’s time to peel away the barrier of skin and make a stand.
Remember...
Heart-muscle knows what mind-fibre has forgot.
Remember...
My mouth on yours, your lips on mine, tongue-pylons entwined;
What we’ve now become is all that we were not!
And this dome, this dome is a dome of ice...
What’s hardened melts in the softness of your eyes,
As the moon in your thighs eclipses the sun in mine,
And with each caress we bless, and with each sigh we die, to the lure of
Love...
to leave the lean years behind...
