The sweat from her skin but a creation of passion.
In the rapture of plessure no prisoners taken.
Rage made passion, plessure made the moment.
Inside from the storm the encounter was torment of the best kind.
The bed creaked as a climax end would only inspire more vivid
desires.
More than sex was a moment of two bodies colliding
on the plessure cast road to release.
Flesh meeting and all false manners cast aside
the primal motives always kick in.
Her body was a shared experience theater for
of a wicked plessure.
Her skin pure in such a jaded since.
Tommorow would the moment be lost in some sort
of awkward rythm of stillness.
Two stranger's who need reason to meet.
Or would the true self speak above the moral code.
The drink of life I so wish to drown within tonight.
Naked thoughts bared scars.
We would venture back to circles her's would view her
a whore for knowing happiness.
And mine would yern to only hear of conquest but
see in mirror and dream with deaf ear.
It was a plessure to embrace chaos.
So may we drown togather again.