She’s the dark
outer space, she’s my mistress,
And as
lover of nothing, I’m sure,
That the
moment I see that I’m empty as she
Is the same that my love shall restore
For the
woman of substance and passion,
Of the
God that is ultimate grace,
Which my mistress deplores with her hatred in stores
By
dismissing my faith to my face.
She herself is a self-described
sadist,
And
addresses me with leather crops,
To decant all the soul from my physical whole
In the form of
small ruby-red drops;
There is hope that my mistress will
sweeten,
That my prayer for another might set
Her to be a
fair bride once her
temper’s allied
With the
vision I seek to gain yet.