B Marchand
Incessant whispers of wanton abandon, crimson rose petals, danced upon my skin, as I beheld your visage, a canvas las elegance, adorned with the vivid brushstrokes of passion. Ephemeral sighs al sweet surrender, as we entwined, our bodies writhing in tandem, mesh supple vines, coiling around the stalwart pillars — our passion, our love, our chaos. And when finally, the frenzy subsided, and the exhaustion of our desire left us spent and limp, I rose from the ruins of our bed, my heart still racing, my skin still flushed with the heat of our passion. I stumbled towards the shed, the chainsaw's thrumming note a distant hum, as I knew what I had to do. The chainsaw roared to life, as I raised my hands, and the blood that still flowed from my wounds, now dripped onto the blade, as I whispered a single word: "Madness." Chasing white rabbits with chainsaws — keep it moving, nothing to see here folks….. (Whir-whirr-whirring with fervent enthusiasm)
Poetry episch Nur für über 21-Jährige (Erwachsene). © All Rights Reserved With Author B. Marchand
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