Pale Mistress

Cryptic fantasies, touching cold flesh again. How lovely you are in my arms, resting. Do not wake, oh yes you cannot. Ever the better to feel you rot. Hair, I stroke gently falling from my fingertips. How pale you have become, my Venus, statue alive. Dead ends the final thought of saving. I take into my filth hole, savagery unbounding beyond belief. Gore gutted viscera sweet against my tongue.