Stephen Christopher Harris
I, Incubus
Author Unknown
You, my chaste chalice of virtue whose physical beauty is unblemished ~ I hear your whispers brought to me on wisps of wind ~ you call for me night after night with please inaudible to listening ears ~ a litany of beseeching dulcet tones adorn my heart as you pray ~ you wish of me to slide between and beneath the sheet to be with you ~ in vain hopes you bolt windows and doors to hold me near for some blissful imprisonment that you are longing for.
I linger long in your mind after you dream of me ~ clinging to you like a cologne that is fused to your memory ~ I glide and adhere to fingers and lips with a flavor likened to bouquets of roses and paradises you wish to devour me whilst bussing ~ opening mouths and lips for exploration you cast this web to catch me with to ensnare me in a tangle of knotted arms and legs locked in a death's grip ~ always this ploy, I always escape before morning, do I not? ~ And I always return.
You seem to have tactile rememberance of me ~ your skin puckers and welts from the thought of my touch, and that glisten of sweat, which glows in your sleeping, a moisture saturated with bee's pollen and diamond dust which trap highest brightest bluest noon and deepest softest embrace of night ~ this luminous perspiration flares men's loins to arousal and hunger and thirst to drink the scent and sight of it ~ your nude and simple beauty beckons and poses incendiary promises, but your lips ope's not such words to such pelages.
In my presence the frequency of breaths quicken ~ you struggle to say my name ~ and my name, when waking, you forget ~ never forget that I do care for you, but I am after all a beast that flirts and flits with the walking on cat's feet ~ for I,
I am Incubus!
I linger long in your mind after you dream of me ~ clinging to you like a cologne that is fused to your memory ~ I glide and adhere to fingers and lips with a flavor likened to bouquets of roses and paradises you wish to devour me whilst bussing ~ opening mouths and lips for exploration you cast this web to catch me with to ensnare me in a tangle of knotted arms and legs locked in a death's grip ~ always this ploy, I always escape before morning, do I not? ~ And I always return.
You seem to have tactile rememberance of me ~ your skin puckers and welts from the thought of my touch, and that glisten of sweat, which glows in your sleeping, a moisture saturated with bee's pollen and diamond dust which trap highest brightest bluest noon and deepest softest embrace of night ~ this luminous perspiration flares men's loins to arousal and hunger and thirst to drink the scent and sight of it ~ your nude and simple beauty beckons and poses incendiary promises, but your lips ope's not such words to such pelages.
In my presence the frequency of breaths quicken ~ you struggle to say my name ~ and my name, when waking, you forget ~ never forget that I do care for you, but I am after all a beast that flirts and flits with the walking on cat's feet ~ for I,
I am Incubus!
"Fear Eats the Soul"
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