Savoir these Martyrdoms

There is no ploy in prayer.
And this lost soul whom preys insatiably..
With breathless eagerness upon your own,
Whilst his venom instills a wallowing in idolatry.


Sit astute your pitcher of gold.
Pour unto me the pungent fragrance...
Of your yearning labored lust.
So I may feast upon your nectar.

Still the rhythm of chattering teeth.
Falling aloft upon your bosom.
Devouring fear from your cracked chest,
Unto the subtle hymns of revelation.

Tis more ere to b'had...Than carnal lust...
There is also loves darkest devotions.