Punish me, O'Wicked One
For the thoughts this imagination creates are far from pure.
Devilish ideas from a sinners heart, blacked and chipped.
I dream of your confessions of beauty while your grip tightens against my throat.
To justify the sting across my pale skin with ambrosion blacks and blues.
I do not deserve the silken lashes from your forked tongue but I hunger for them as if they were the only sustenance that which to keep me alive.
Like the blood for a Night Child, I feed from the crimson words that spill from your beautiful lips.
I crave nothing ore than your approval.
So punish me Devil's Son. My Bacchus, My Dracul.
But punish while looking on with the gazes full of adoration I see within my minds eye so clearly.
My Lucifer. My Angelus. My Poppet.
Those eyes that bare truths untold.
Truths I would gladly lay my life upon to hear whispered against my final exhale.
