Nympholepsy, Her Play.

She was the succubus between desires,
only living through that fatally etched reportage
of loathing within screaming replacement appetites.

Who thought she was more avidity than night walker?
Yet, all her passions fell short of heart and fickle emotions,
that wild frenzy raging swift hurt, cutting only deeper.

Those eyes shone immorality between cracked sheets,
and she opened her legs again, sooner those than soul,
tasting inky concupiscence on those bleak iniquitous lips.

Could she deal more than corruptions direful kiss?
Tawny bruises hidden beneath tragedy and make-up,
her comedy, she exclaimed, existence in waking tears.

But nothing ever emerged past lies and surface pox!
Those tarnished contaminations regret nothing,
while your pneuma ingurgitates tenderness tonight.

© Phen Weston 2014


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