The sensual curved line on the bed
perfect.
The eyes: burning, red, leaking for reason unknown.
Private room for me and you.
Darkness quenching the need to hide the
lustrous actions ensued.
Accept your fate, useless strumpet, unrivaled *****.
Your garden grows quickly out of control.
Weeds in your rose bush, fence weighed down by
inherent overgrowth
of emotion:
fervor, passion.
A kiss.
The last sweetness of
your lips
that will ever be given
or gotten.
Death.
A sweet relief for the world
from you,
Desdemona.