Still and stoic, stunned, momentarily,
for the sake of not wanting to tarry,
though her eyes are starry
I suppose I am chasing the fiery,
like a proper torture puppet,
where pleasure is purely measured by the sounds she makes,
and I,
a pain filled pie,
promising to encapsulate a well packaged bespoke mind,
tailored to her tail and devilish wings,
let my crown be one that stings, if so she esteems,

roar and drag my nails against the sheets,
across the bedroom floor and into conspiracy,
teeming in a way that they would deem, simplified and undignified,
while you dig your nails in and I dream of your teeth,
do everything and all without leaving nothing undone unto me,

my promise is not to bawl, except of joy, that I'd devolve for the sake of your destitute ball. Trampling and fancying my fencing fall,
hearing me enamored through the halls, because I am what she esteems, and nothing is as it seems, unless she sees it fit,
and I throw her a romantic fit.

Go on, capture yourself capturing me, witness how it is that a rose falls, into a flower garden with no mystery to solve, for the only way is up, and the field is filled and sunlit. Might you say there's nothing to wit, just decadence to not be absolved but played with.

Your fire, I acquit.