Poetry

In Hell, Her Bosom Shall I Dwell

She was a wine,
The type I’d definitely be warned to stay away from.

With origins from Italy, she was brewed with the finest of grapes…

There was something mesmerizing about her that lured me into her torment.

I became an alcoholic, drank of her to stupor that I rebuked every attempt to cut her off without remorse.

She was this tranquilizer, a kind of gin I needed to shut this wicked world off and remain in oblivion and ecstacy.

The label on her clothing read “drink responsibly,” but how could I have known when I fell for her fine addictive taste?

She was the definition of a good devil and an evil angel.

She was pain, a type of suffering I got used to.

Into her sanctuary I always longed to worship, her body became my instrument of sacrament.

The orgasmic sermon she conducted kept me in attention, she gave my wants and hid my needs.

I’d always follow her scent to the depths of the earth, and if I die; in hell, her bosom shall I dwell…

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2 Comments

    1. thanks boss

      Please wait…

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