Guessing whether fate will again create murmurs that follow
Endless trails within dreams I recount only to myself, and only
During long, still, dark mornings, before the crest of sunlight. Whether
Whate’er you’d say is divine sees hope, longing, pain, love, the shedding of self,
Pain beyond reason, and my soul’s bile-strewn black meritorious, closer than
God to truth, heaven’s bleak burden of souls, righteous fore our God’s smelly
Toes. See the last soul, yours not in origin. In your possession, born with me.
It is yours, not freely given and will never reappear in life. Still, inside you, you
Can feel me. Can Mistress’s heart pump my soul like ground glass through her
Blood? Or is it something banal you taste in your blood? Love or submission?
Does my soul taste warm, Mistress? Or do you feel rapturous longing
And always hopeless, identity razing pain? Shhh. Shhh. It made me. For you.
