Tipped into thy divine mouth,
Like Heaven draining through an hourglass,
Of thy heavenly form, with no crudeness
At all, to the beauty of serpents.
I am in love with a sin,
To make love with the surge of emotion,
To make love with a woman of my nightmare,
Of all pain, and her studious gaze,
Here is me, to count the steps.
To which I describe the form,
Measures my worth,
Like numerous trails that leak
Emptiness from my mind:
You are about as beautiful as the next
Monarch to be placed on a throne,
To me, as wonderful as the throne
Carved into it, with stones of red and green.
Your form is exquisite and serpentine,
A curve, alike to the serpent,
When upon golden sands,
When upon the shielded waters.
You are about as beautiful,
As the woman to which I take into the next,
The next room, where there is not you.
Infidelity is my crossing.
I dine now on the next,
My comparison is everything.
I draw on your flesh the word “deception”
And the word “shame”.
Oh, devil, take me down,
To where you will see yourself,
And your fields of ruin,
I see you, and I see the next,
Woman of my nightmares.
Is a love so entwined with virtue or sin,
As this? In my place beside thee,
Have I come to enter a new room?
My God, as the one who forsakes,
My tempest, and my wants,
I place you among all things,
To watch, to espy, to find salvation in the many.
My death is my certainty.