You tie me down to a bed of lust
with your silken verse
and slide the hands
of your come hither
and **** me poetry
over my sweating flesh
and cause the ambitions
of my sins to grow
as you spit out
the ***** things you want to do
with your lips painted
in wicked hues
and poisoned reds
and playfully strip us down
with your wet tounge
full of metaphors
until our clothes
and skin
and bones
are burning in your words of fire
and we become nothing more
than flames within
the whims of your desire
and take us to dark places deep
to penetrate beyond who we are
and turn us into
prayers of moans
and forbidden waves of sound
and light bent over
and arched
and twisted
and contorted limbs
no longer able to tell who is who
as we become a dance
of carnal acts
of primordial ooze
and then with a simple line
whispered in my ear
you bring me crashing back through
the stars
and doors
and flesh
and pin me back down
to your bed of life
and lust
and love
and death
and drain me with one final kiss
of molten bliss
that draws out the eruption
felt pass through dying soul
and trembling heart
and quivering flesh
and I rise and die again
in the beauty of your bed
made of words of fire
and ash
and burning poetry

And I blame the likes of JM Dematteis and Jon J Muth
for writing and Illustrating The Complete MoonShadow
so perfectly well
and Charles Baudelaire for leaving behind
his flowers for all the world
to smell the evil within their roots
and for Blake for his reeds and his tiger
and his heaven and hell
and for freezing eternity so we might all catch a glimpse
and for Bukowski and Hunter
for turning ugly truths into something beautiful
we could all enjoy hating
and for Shakespeare and Gaiman
and the dreams they weave
into the fabrics of our soul
and for the devil and temptation
and for god and shame
and for the laughter of children
and the tears of the grieving
who will never hear their children laugh again
and for those that paint
something beautiful out of all the pain
that they feel and see in the world
and the melancholy who sit high up
in dead tree branches to hang the moon
and the stars in the dark of the night
so the rest of us dont have to be lost and alone
in the lonely hours between sleep and dreams
and for each painful breath
that reminds me where love once lived
in my chest and each joyful sigh
that reminds that I'm still alive
and that somewhere between the shadows of doubt
and the glimpse of brief moments of hope
I still might find a seed shaped
like a heart beating  to plant in my hand
and sew over my chest
and I can meet death
with love still living inside the cold ground
where my body will rest