|
|
|
Whisper not of adornments and play of flesh against flesh sweetly molded. Speak not of the tears shed in this sepulchr of pain or of mirrors and masks and passion's games. Speak not to me of love -- She smiles not on me. Her waters of healing soften not |
this battered stone. Here no flowers grow. My fire dank and bleak has burned away every seed and scorched Her demons to the bone. Love has no need of me. I will not bow or bend or yield, |
or beg or pray or scream. i have no need of Her; it is She that does blaspheme. And when on Her bloody table of sacrifice I lay It is to a fierce, well-honed blade, a demon-God I pray. Sweet-devourer of dreams, Take this heart away. |