Hot flesh-pressed – distressed.
Iron truss, melted by this mess.
molten-gold-lined Soul corrupter.
Still I reach; flesh burns,
I convulse, heave, and retch. I, wretch.
I watch your world turn,
embarrassed – stomach sickly churns.
Rewind the burn, push
back into the old, folded age
of Scorched Love, the Rush
busted – pieces of Lust.
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.