Woman

I have come to know that a woman's bed is always barbed. A wreath of hooks and razors, garnished by the still beating hearts of lovers past. A cacophony of sobs, sweet nothings, laughter, and lies echoing down the hallowed halls of her history, reverberating from the chests of fallen men before me... only to find me too late, as a dragon perched upon her carnal riches and as a pig wallowing in her Mother nature. There is solace here, yet my eyes are stricken down by hers... and I dare not speak a word. There is only sensation and sound, and perhaps rhythm when the world is right. And there it must end, there where seeds of desperation must not take root. So instead, she is adorned with ghostly coils of the unborn, and heartened by implied promises of the untrue. I wonder, does my essence become her? And what now? Now echoes return to my ears, forgotten only briefly, and I sleep...