You awoke in a mist,
A rotting fawn lying
Broken at your feet.
These are the moments
That warp your inane chaste
Souls wrapping rakish flesh.
I defer those moments to
The ones, my dear, who’ve
Descended pitiless into Gehenna.
We strike up nugatory critiques,
Commentaries, opinions. Vain stabs
At this Beast of Peccancy. Whose
Skin has yet to feel the pierce of
You, quite acutely. But in time,
Sweet dear, you’ll spill his blood
With a quickness. And walk home,
His broken body left for another.
Hajjis frequent these places.