How oft in sorrow she may feign,
yet hold semblance of soft repose;
she draws me near in sweet refrain,
her pillowed breast, a tendered rose.
Then, she plies her lips to mine,
of trembled breath, strains a kiss;
her pallor lips still taste of wine,
yet still, with ardor, needing this.
Tears had stained her silken flesh,
but still her eyes bear stars alight;
with a voice now soft and fresh,
“Bid us wed”, she begs the night.
Thus remitted, rampant, wild,
flesh succumbs as captured prey,
we savor morsels now defiled,
and with dawn, find brightest day.