The Lad was Hooked

Oh to mercy, such glamorous, effective, sheer ecstatic, mind altering—salacious beauty; this sophistication, such senseless words, to suggest an immortal grace; as pure authentication, while such adultery, fleeing for dying into a rabid phantasmagoria; where souls would cringe, to love such treachery, while vying for an ultimate location—pitted in minds, while dying with class, to extend beyond a session of passions.  I’m counting flowers, this melancholic rite, destined to perish this mercurial woman; to sense temptations, rolling through gravel, this desert our hearts gnawing sands—this plural event, as never for taste, this woman as deadly as leviathan; to love for permanence, this impermanent agony, to have that impression lodged in membranes.  It couldn’t be rich, this faceless adoration, a man merely a teen: while skipping class, or failing tests, to enchant this un-enchantable; for mere an orgasm, or sheer that climax, where I lie to suggest a friendly nonchalance.  I’m drifting through time, a man of sixteen, this secret kept from comrades: this devious woman, as built by gods, a goddess enjoying liaisons.  I want us more, this mother of children, bent on pills; this tragic stare, as filled with sorrows, a woman twice my age.  It couldn’t be sex; and it couldn’t be love; as more pure infatuation; to climb for heights, gazing at glory, this perfectly imperfect woman.  I’m mere a man, steady to feel, as more a loss of ejaculations; as to know it not, this thing for feelings, to dig unto a bleeding sensation; where hell was present, as heaven was near, to lose by grace to riches.  I’ve died a fortnight, groveling to spirits, calling without purpose; to meet that tale, as borne to deaths, while earth became a shallow place.  We die this way, to become morbid, peering for cringing at a lost encounter; a man so young, holding to visions, enlove with a beautiful contour: that oval face; that welkin womb; those thighs and hips colored by topaz breasts; to come to terms, this man of millions, vying for recognition; if but to fly, as geared to torments, to come to conclusions. It had to live life, this affective woman, as now a man and five scars.