She tasted akin to the death; a
bullet knows when it hits the flesh;

merciless and delicate,
a gorgeous fatality everytime.

and she knows her power;
and she flaunts it well with luscious intention.

she laughed at my mortality, as the wave
laughs at the sad pathetic row boat cast unwittingly into
the cyclone,
for she is a jovial feline set to
feast;

and i dig it, and i surrender my flesh for
her satisfaction. and if what I offer falls short,
then
i want to know nothing else but
a pretty death.

The great dictatress gives willingly, like a scarlet
Mother Teresa,
providing transient solace the way a
serpent tightens its coils around
that one last breath;

her pious sustenance
kept me sane, at least in my own eyes,
while she dangled me on her lips
and
told the world I was
her
most dedicated captive.

my white flag conceded my defeat,
a defeat which felt more like a resurrection within
the flesh of something more powerful than thunder and
peace;

The chains of love are thick, but they sure
deliver the last meal
I
crave.