gentle comes the whispers before the wanton
when of virgin silt is plucked diamonds
though they be as melted sighs

the agony of wet when drying, burns the soul
when insatiability at thy brim strums sinful
and you prey to satan to bring healing

there are places in this new day you admire
that will squat your belly into ruins
and leave you with fever hands dancing

it is well within your urges then, it is heathen
and I am but the harvester of your liquid
that wrings my hands around your throat

before that whisper of “please” is even uttered