“Love is an eternity that a man denies. A man denies what perhaps God has founded to be a mistake, when even He could not see that His own creations would mirror the same mistakes. We call such unplanned creations of an infant, a ‘mistake’ perhaps for a reason, that we were acting out of lust to burn away a moment that would not last.
In the name of concealing truth, God would be concealed by Man, and next say that God does not exist. God concealed Man and Woman, through clothing, upon the Garden of Eden, when fault struck Mankind. Mankind, as a dose of vengeance, conceals God in the wake of realization, and that is the realization of the creation of more fault. Lust rises upwards like the heat from Hell, making itself a reality and easily seen, to make ‘mistake’ after ‘mistake’.
The only reason why Man denies God, is due to every bit of knowledge towards good and evil comes as a shock for him, comes as a tragedy of loss, comes as a creation gone missing; and, in this, Man denies God because love is not a good reason for neither Man nor God to exist. Man must therefore struggle to want love. To want no breaths in the captivation of that love.”
Feel thy current calling, Between the motioning legs, Crawling upwards, To see the sun and its eyes, To hear the moon for its cries, Love has been the blessing, Though, lust has been the wave Of kisses for our mouths.
I feel the smoothness, of fruit, Of orbs of flesh, As softest breasts, Your fetish is a warmth, A beauty to which I feel the need To drown myself.
Lust is but a current, A conflagration of incredible warmth, An inferno that is but a spark To begin this trail of debris, That is cast over shoulders with a searing gleam, As love controls our whims, Lust will make music, Through our repeated sighs.
Who said love ever failed? Beside, and upon, and under A bed, With joyous eyes To shoot towards stars, That decorate a torso, Full of secrets to a night, As they are shared to me, in blissful melody.
Fill Me with your Denial
Your pleasure, Is but a falling fortress, Your face, Screams the calls of enticement, The calls of denial, The scream, the want, and the yearning, You have the face of change.
I am but two fingers within, A pencil has outlined your womb, A thorn has cut the flesh, Measured as a fragment, To what you owe, To the empowered me, Please me, the man of too many nights.
Death denies many, While life adores the plenty. Your servitude upon my cauldron, That heats the water for your bath, I have a message: I state, that whether or not you face me, You are the woman who will accept me.
Blow Kisses My Way
Kisses are sterile, Without their fire, Without lips that glisten, Without cheeks that also gleam, There is not the constant Rush of any moment. Blow those kisses, In my direction, In my way. I yearn to catch them, And pull strings upon your heart.
Beauty has its way Of offering flesh. From the womb of a woman, Flesh is raised. Flesh comes about, In the thickening trail of anguish, In all despairs to a life, Well-lived.
Blow your kiss, Towards me, Upon me, So that I may taste it.
Your distance, Is often the cause, For my tears. I have cried many a night, To see you peacefully Nestled to a blaze, A blaze of love and glory. A blaze of the fewest nights, Needed to prove, An offered love.
Kisses are meant to be few, For love is not meant to be renewed. For how could longing be there, When love has already been shared?
A Feminine Seduction
Great marble, so close to the color of your flesh, Peel off, I do, the art of modesty, The clothing I have discovered to be sinfully placed, Upon what makes you whole.
I view, With eyes alike the artist, Wielding his brush as a weapon, As a dagger, As a sword, How yourbeauty has come as seduction, Placed upon the doom of humanity.
You starve the wonders from the world, Through all you consume. One finger like the bent and burning candle, Touches my flesh to rend it scarring, Touches my heart to make it roar, With all fury and pain to my world. And two eyes of yours, Made alike the ocean, with tears alike a banquet So that all may eat them.
All Pain Runs Deep
To the ocean, and to the ends of the Earth, Subtlety is but a natural fixture, To one perception of flatness, Never the infinite, But, the limitation of a sight, As if beauty were never protected, As if humans grace themselves over With another’s blood.
Christ and sin, The strange calls from the din. The women and their desperation, The fires from a Hell, Are faster than those from Heaven.
They burn faster, Over flesh. A quickness, a temptation, Christ called to the forsaker, A woman had called to her son, A Mother of sorrow, A face made of ivory, And tears descended, Like angels removed from Heaven.