Clothes woven with lies,
chains long binding my eyes,
have worn in my spirit a covetous hole.

Rooted fast in my fear,
like a mad puppeteer
it pulses a drumbeat which smothers my soul.

Still I struggle and fight
lest its carnal delight
erode all my reason and leave me a beast.

For my dearest of friends
are its means to an end,
reducing their forms to a soft, supple feast.

Devoid of a cure,
I am forced to endure
this incubus body I dread to call mine.

Thus I tamp down my grief,
God forgive my relief,
as I let my blood thicken with honey and wine.