Black Magic Love Song

empty, black-out voids of an emotion

not present within her breast

i am what i am, but not what she wants:

merely a supplement of circumstance,

and yet her lips taste like heaven as

she coaxes me into hell

silken threads of ichor lace my heart

to her hands, and with each quiver

of a finger she plays with my devotion

like the keys on a broken harpsichord;

the tune is sick and serrating

she breathes into me once more,

her mouth close to mine, and I see her:

eyes like witchcraft

lips like poison;

she drinks me in like the sweetest of wines,

and i let her drain the rose from my cheeks

empty, black-out voids of an emotion

not present within my breast

Xandra Winters © 2021