And you can suck the wine that has spilled from my lips if I could just but stroke your golden crown of blessed curls once more
The glistening silken strands that had long since become an object of my yearning, even more than the sun I can no longer see
With a face constructed to be more beautiful and holier than Christ’s
With fingers designed to ensnare and entangle like the imp’s
For no catholic hymns held me so close, no cross, ever touched, so tantalisingly cold
I can see myself kneel, possessed by a force unseen, desperate to pledge my faith to which ever being he may come to be
In the childlike hopes I be allowed to breath in his gourmand scent, to feel the wash of it as it grips me through his silken shirts for just once more in my short eternity
No longer do I feel the shame from the sickening pleads and soul baring promises I’d come to make in the hopes I’d become the sole object of his desire, to be the one who’d ignite those stained glass eyes
No commission rang too grand should it result in a portrait of myself in his blackened heart
Unravelling me from the crisscrossed threads of my only known existence, allowing him to snap them apart, when he must, with bared teeth
All for a world in which he gently teases my eyes to open
To teach me the expansion of the senses and the release of my soul
Ushering me in to new lights with a possessive hand
He asks me if I’m afraid of the Devil and with my last shallow breath I answer,
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