Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
On the slow rise
your words are as
knives or butterflies.
Still sleeping in a
daydream, a walk-about
Trail of replicas to my
If I dared write
what’s in my heart,
what’s on my mind,
what drives me on,
I’d attract ants,
and bring bees
to the smell...
I see you, not as words —
not a single quote
or chapter — but as
an unfolding story.
And I love reading the story
that you are —...
One night a succubus did take flight,
To feast on souls of men,
To trade them their very lives,
For the most fantastic of all deaths.
She did descend upon one man,
A philosopher, his sole trade,
With mind as vast and wide as the heavens,
He was still a slave to his baser nature.
Signed in blood a contract was formed,
That he would relinquish his very soul,
"When he was truly satisfied,"
And not a moment before.
Thus their night of passion began,
She blew his mind as thoroughly as she blew him,
With the sweet agony lasting for hours on end,
Until their bodies were on the verge of collapse.
But when she tried to collect his soul,
She found that she could not,
For the Philosopher began to muse,
If the pleasure was really satisfaction.
This continued on for years at a time,
Because he could never know satisfaction’s truth,
And all while he tried to explore this,
The Succubus was a slave to his every whim.
She was released after he died,
Years gone just for one soul,
And if you should learn from this tale, let it be,
Never make contracts with Succubi,
Or Philosophers for that matter.