And the spirit cried; where is the flesh!
It is not I that 'comes a fool to travel to this place.
An oasis by which men must drink the poison of angels.
There is no sin to tell; no greater desire than the passion of man.
To touch, unfold and tempt a motion that defines nocturnal pleasure.
But do cometh the demise of such incubus that paint such majesty,
where only black light can cast mystical shadow and doubt.
Do lover's love or penetrate an imagination of sin?
And the spirit became erect and exalted in tearful whisper.
Woman, the curse is this mystery you call love.
copyright © Rob Snow 2010-2018
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