December 21, 2004





  • I have given up hope of carnate love, in this time, this age—whether it should last but an evening or beyond the dearth of a kalpa of yet unborn worlds.  I’ve been ripped, stripped repetitively,  disrobed too methodically of the fabric of passion that shrouded me fervantly in desire’s shade.  I huddled in it like a feminine soul, investing faith in promises sweetly, earnestly made yet vacated as if they were from a world of borrowed, visiting life fleeing for the safe harbor of the recovering mother ship .  Piercing ardor rules no longer.  Snow has arrived to powder my desert.  And the houri of frozen ferocity has commanded me:  Thou shall not quetch of the cold in the kingdom of the lost.

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