Your growing fragrance,
Matches this room and its aromatic candles.
And I have found it upon myself
With my hands to claw at the flesh of thee,
To tear and yank the burden of attire I see,
To match the nakedness to the maker of me,
Who is a demon that I cannot let flee.
You have sweat glistening upon an arm,
And a face that whimpers beneath the soaring skies.
When I choose to love, I live as the beast,
To devour the wholeness of your making.
When did you last submit?
Where will you see yourself in coming years?
Above the sands of shores where shades dance on a form,
That has never been nude.
I shall lay you upon a bed,
For myself to see,
And to glimpse a moving breast,
And two legs like the purest white from birch.
When I’ll make you mine,
I’ll differ nectar from wine,
And make the world find me tiresome.
When will I grow intolerant?