To my left: my brain, my bravery—
Picture me a man robed with squalor
A grime imminent and afraid
Forget that which cradled my skin
Forget it’s softness, her purity
I am no more OF THE PRINCIPLE
Call my canines the softest of teeth
For even she who lashes, who breathes
Imagine as she peels back the husk; see:
Her fruit supple; warm and sinless
Picture me a thief of the second circle
I lust not for her apples; her vines
Think of the grime once more:
To my right; my heart, my deceit—
I dig farther into her seed, searching
Ravenous I am, for an anecdote of saint
Here we are, dancing—waning—lusting
PRINCIPLE is dead, but only for a moment
My unfaithfulness has driven her far
How captivating, my newest love
It is her rot which draws me near
Think how I once dressed in silk;
She’s made of me a man of dignity
Who writhes in dirt and murky waters
But I don’t dare to return ‘till dawn
For my Lord is still in need of children
And to mate with mire is to die!