- Erotic Poetry
- Self-Love
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I am a whore flower, opening and opening. Convulsing around the tool of impregnation. I am filled with a thousand children of Death.
It is no longer rape. I am begging for this constantly, because you desire flesh.
Consume.
Consumption.
Consumation.
In that holy sunlit garden of stars, you stood behind me as I kneeled. So quietly you stood there. I was sufficient. As you thrust yourself into me I looked out. Seeing pillars crumble, and fall away.
Who would be watching me? Who would comprehend this posture I have concealed.
The creases of your skin, the righteous gore of man. Your scaled hands hold me menacingly in this posture.
Blood streams from my pupils.
My throat is cut.
My hands sink
into the soil, and my fingers begin to grow,
decay,
and die.
Rightly
- COMMENTS
flyguy69about 19 years agoI loved the image of fingers taking root, though decay and die seem in wrong order. Another engaging poem-- I look forward to more from you.
My Erotic Taleabout 19 years agoa strong topic and sad event released into poetry of memory and release. The rose knows not that it has the ability to be a prick.
