Pulling like a passionate force from within,

The burning urge was killing me silently.

Torn about between right and wrong,

My mind screeched with a million broken glasses,

I would trample on them to forget.

If only I had softer foot prints to float on,

I would tiptoe away on the dying breeze of sense,

But my feet were pillars of granite founded

In the stealth prey's prowling eyes' path.

Seduced by the irony of dangerous desires.

I played with the devil under the twilight moon,

Ignorant of a sudden doom unfolding from veils

We danced and his belly growled in anticipation of delight

As I penetrated into the warm depth of sensual terror.

My only console was the lie of 'what will be will be.'