industrious is the eloquence,
of your satin ladden hands,
broken as the tempest raises,
burdened upon the sands.
My longing has not been worshipped,
and the elusiveness of it all,
has a comatose to reason,
the elegance of the fall.
the banquet has been laiden,
with silk and crimson lust,
eat thine heart out,
julia child,
and make the broken feel just.
My hands a re bleeding,
my heart pleading,
won't you give me what you have,
to bear into manuever,
the excellence of this grand scheme.
I miss you,
I need you,
I want you for my own.
I break this inpulsive cacophony,
of lust,
to feel ashamed.
yet time has not yet given me,
my secret,
my lame excuse,
for the blame,
of sins.
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