Klarare nu

There is faint motive in your hunt of sexual game, of craving for extension, of seeking out exotic fruit emboldened by invention. Life's cup spills diversions in a bounty that confuses, you savour without style, relentless urges palter, you are afraid it seems to counter this inanity in case it proves a dream. A weakness of your yielding flesh, the treachery where wit cannot compel it quiet, clouds the nature of reality, and drives this single-minded search where each new conquest proves you right and fuels desire that swells until it hurts.

You are the matriarch, aloof and desolate, a valkyrie to consummate the chosen sons, anoint their swords in sacrifice and dub them heroes of the night. They rub and plunge without their eyes for miracles you promise in the valley of your thighs. Yet this vision of a vamp arcane confounds urbanity, invites derision from its very source. You seem distraught, elusive passion cedes your nerveless grip and you wield your body in erotic seas as a rudderless, sensuous ship.

We are the watchers stirred to witness sex, thrilled with sympathetic energy which quickens in our breath; but other forces guide your bodily design and moisten nether lips in unctuous flow without correction. Your cerebrum in muzzled with sensations, you are coming with your mind aglow in riot of desires you can only tame to know; and in the mellow ebb of truth you find that passion's flight has left you, too, behind.

I.D.C.