Anything more than the truth would be too much - Robert Frost

The Peacock Eater


16 nominations

Caressing the glossy plumage of this strange, earthly creature, She buries her thoughts in the feathery chest of her lure. Cringing as this sultry bird sounds its ominous call, Instilling an attractive fear, covering her in its pall. Grasping tighter, as to stop a terrible personal invasion, Ripping at her provocateur with the sweetness of delusion. Then gently kissing the nakedly raw and brazen skin, Of this eccentric freak, waiting to be allowed in. To walk through the doorways of her virginal animalism, A spirit slowly bordering on the essence of cannabalism. And when she feels the guilt ride deeply in her hair, She sees the pleasure in his eyes and knows it was fair. It was his toll for pushing her into her darkness, Where she lost control, begging for a grascious harness. That she only found as her nails breached his fleshy soul, And his bloody thoughts released her into an accepting hold. And as she turned away and gazed back in her stride, Her glance foretold of a return, her eyes could not hide. So he waits till she needs the chaos of the feast, As he, the Peacock, cries out for his sensuous beast. 20 March 2003 (RSA)



© SICKNESS
2004-10-07

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