My thighs are wet of blood and orgasm.
Look to the flora and the bee,
to the beast that does not snivel
a repressed grunt, hidden or, head down,
or bent of knee.
Bare grotto revelations fall empty
and impotent in the wake of their great
clock that is always ticking a somber
tock.
Seven flickering candles
light a dim space
within a lost place.
I rise fiercely,
moist and renewed, jeweled of dew
and amber droplets of honeyed exhalations,
willfully wanton and a sharp-forked-tongue
to taste the bitter within the sweet.
My cunt is crowning and so cometh
the bloodied babe forged
of unbound fires.
Not a tomb
but a Womb.
All pieces are newly crafted and posted shortly after in adherence to the rules of the challenge. All the photos are mine unless otherwise stated.
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