I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie
I have my freedom but I don’t have much time
Faith has been broken, tears must be cried
Let’s do some living after we die
She smelled of old tomes bound in finest leather, sweat from heat and passion strained, dew of the frosted mornings clinging dryly to slim-veined leaves like her own lithe limbs, a tender and lined, pale beauty that echoed the wolf's sun in soft radiance speaking in the umber-brown tones of silt and mud-earth. This drama wracked her marble tension in a veil of alabaster and silver feigned emotions, a concoction of struggle and reprieve set upon a stiff and vaulted mind looming in shadow and barely visible light, a haunting aging phantom worrying away at the statuesque ivory giving and giving of its idyllic frame. This is chafing, she would say, a gladly taking of the slim ideascape incorporated into the slants and curves of the light as it was bent into her skin and back out once more, a blue lamp of inhibition networking along the corded muscle, tone and taught, all caught up, in a blending of madness and seduction. On cannot cope with the abscension, the emptying of a soul, the silt and sand slowing quaking into the watery ellipsis boiling over with transduction and raining out the amalgamated bolt down a length of wire so thin as one of us. She was glass beads brimming from her tongue the jewels of life and laughter falling at a rhythm, a cadence and contractual hoom of her pulse dipping the frail chords in ecstasy only to shake it free in the tackling, tossing monomeric fumbling for words that consumes in the din of flooded love and consummation. This beauty corrupts us wholly, entreating the wandering of souls to blacken with yellow-sick sin while profanity is stark truth, a lovely bold reflection of vulgar row and conquering contagion in search, constantly warred and palely raging fingers deep through he skull. Suck in, drain in, expedite the delirium feeling only the rudimentary shear of a palsy shift in personality. She held tight this time in the gale force careen, the mauve-wrinkled twilight perfusing the last collapsed vessel as she hemorrhaged out her own Canterbury tales, blindly seeding the fallen mess of own pearls and parcels sloughing off the hips. Green glass shoals breaking the meagre number within the elder seas, casting what few tithings still flat off at the far end of sanity. Very well she may cross the line or swim to provide better ballast, a greater keel to the vicious, hurried wind she presses to others ears.