Exploring hands encounter no defence; Recollecting endeavours drives her to a dry pain Throbbing, throbbing Hamlet's hamartia discards her to *the lowest of the dead
His vanity requires no response; Her life on the line and he's got nothing to lose. So much more the eye can see Caressing, caressing
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass; Leave me, carbuncle: Words she has never been able to utter . . . Loudly, she thinks it It doesn't translate Shivering, quivering
Brittle monster bestows one final patronising kiss I must exercise some form of self control
Hardly aware of her departed lover, She lays in a yellow blanket; Phosphenes in the emerging light of day.
Honestly, half this poem is T S Eliot's "The Fire Sermon"