Astriapo's profile

The oddest memories are the ones that cut through the muck of everyday existence. They pour themselves into your subconscious like honey suckle fragrance on a spring day. Macabre wonders that invite the bizarre and play tricks on your mind. Memoirs, that if given the chance, would shine through movie theaters and play houses with enthusiasm. What a wallop. These phantom images that want life, as troubling as they are, usurp your thoughts and leave you wishing the sight had not been seen at al...

The oddest memories are the ones that cut through the muck of everyday existence. They pour themselves into your subconscious like honey suckle fragrance on a spring day. Macabre wonders that invite the bizarre and play tricks on your mind. Memoirs, that if given the chance, would shine through movie theaters and play houses with enthusiasm. What a wallop. These phantom images that want life, as troubling as they are, usurper your thoughts and leave you wishing the sight had not been seen at ...

She sliced her skin to excite my Copper Fetish. Deep and penetrating was the wound orgy. I played to her convex coils, leering into her jest, scratching at her skin to painful delight. She moaned to the passion, She cried for the glory, And love the scaring. Smitten in her feeble world, Alone, but for the savage beast - A trust of love, she gave it all. Her halo; an ankle bracelet of discourage. Was the tourniquet that bound her to me, Bleeder to the Feeder. Companion to the damned. A whore t...

Gazing into my eyes, Can you see what is below the surface? See how the reflection is stubborn to trust your eyes; Still and cold; Deep and unyielding - Desperate to hide under the blankets of lily. Pond poisoned black gray, what lies behind those eyes? Is it something to touch the surface of your reflection? The way things come afloat amongst the small ripples, Depredating the placid waters. So many tragic emotions are hidden in the muck below. Reach deeper into the fade gray. Grasp at the r...

We garner the flowers . . . So slender her shape, A beauty is she. A guard of passion, Caressed in silken love. We weep onto her grave That hidden beauty, inveighed. Her honor so fallen, she scorns. By sending me prick, Baptized in blood, Bolted her trusty thorn! And the flowers we pick, still!