Where he is now, but a mystery to my life.
His face rides my mind,
like an endless mirage upon Arabian.
I\'d love to hear him speak, yet well I know,
the situation is but a stone in a hole.
Nothing of him is as of yet mastered,
a delinquent with skin,
overstretching yielded cast bars.
I crave something rich and strange,
the taste of his creamy velvet churned lips,
a fantasy congealed paste.
I grant, I never questioned where the god does go,
my master, when he walks,
It\'s slow and then off he goes.