To Languish For Anguish

'Like the libidinous froth of pining pudendum, when excited, and left to simmer in its fragrant odor, my desire is that of violent abeyance'

The masochistic aphrodisiac of the Decadent Romance, from the fortune of morbidity and insatiable yearning, remains the weakness of my heart and all its transgressions. Nothing more delectable, than the feverish anguish of burning skin, as it turns to wax, or perhaps the macabre taste of neon crimson, from the cursed communion of the lover's vessel, as he licks its portion with a cold blade. I have slumbered many, desolate nights, impaled by the forking embrace, of intrusive yearning, but my blood has not streamed, with such a monumental eloquence of lucid apathy. Have I truly lost, the meaning of providence, to find myself listless and devoid of all womanly fruition. Is it that perhaps the primeval panacea of forlornness, is a repudiation of all longing, and I am tonight, an angel of quiet rot. Once more, my tender skin has not been tattered by the talons of my darling and I have not tasted of his bitter scorn. It matters not, for it is not long before I die, alone and ridden from my bird of prey.