Author of your body

To your body I succumb every time, which remains as plural images, scattered - surrounding it, infringing upon, long now matter no more; these are the authors: creators of beauty, of hate, of a monster itself. You are matter no more my love, neither a satin drop less. One moment hate's perfect mirror, the next: beauty in my filtered mind - tangeable flesh no more my love, yet to this veil I'll be kind. Ok, this is heavily revised, but rhythmically it makes more sense now. I hope it is a bit less ambiguous, although ambiguity has never been a worry of mine - plurality of meaning makes a text richer - more readers will also be able to claim ownership over it. But alas, this round i'll give the populus the benifit of the doubt...