ixia.

November 9th, 2009

Adrift.

Nothing but pale feet bound to cold hands.

Sick.

Moaning to an unknown pain that’s brought by the mind’s fragmentation.

Honed.

With wild anger, you’ve learned to detain yourself to your mangled chains.

Oh! What’s with the sweet tangles of breath?

Husky clods of breath; given freely as gifts.

As you sink into its beauty, your unknown offense explodes in painful shards.

Wet slips of desire are insatiable.

Womanly. Ethereal.

Mannish. Impossible.