The Key

Gnawings, some such delicious
hungers that roil in One
Offered willingly, sating daily

Life is a versimilitude of tastes
Facets glinting across dampened
fires, stoked with heated whispers
Crawling moans, guttural whimpers
and flexed singleton vapid glances

she lay fecund, her raison d'etre
plain for Him to see and yet
Again the gnawings. Small
protuberances, each gnawed in turn,
a troika, that had her
heaving, the screams clanging off
the walls. Those softly called
litanies, of His name, of His scent
of what He made her into.

Slowly, oiled, sheened
wasted, rippled flesh
crimson welted, oozed lines He licked

Quivering tides of rolling fires
dampened -- not stoked for all, only
His use, let loose on fired brilliantine
paths woven in a maze of
tensions. He held the key
and slowly He turned