Sacrosanct sacrifices collide in a mirrored image. There’s a dual grace in the anguish as the High Priestess tears a beating heart out —
It lures a half-crazed Apollonian hymn from you, harmonized to the devil’s interval, for my repertoire of Dionysian dance, attuned to ballet’s feral ceremonies. On the lunar stage of ecstasy, we sedate and ******.
But how far do you dare to rival the muses? “As far as it takes, and then some more.” You say to me, in consummate hunger. Or are we just fools drunk on nectar in a tug of never-ending war?