poem: nephilim pt. iii

raucous birdsong slicks your throat. you’re the least human lover
i have ever taken into the grove of my heart; immortality stains our tongues (wicked gift) in ochre

and scarlet.
pleasure is sweet. i chase candied awakenings
suck them from your fingertips
and my moans are the nonsense gurgles of the river-girls you lead to sin by their hands and a handful of their hair.

wearied voices clamour

to protect discarded honour and i look over your shoulder at their weeping mouths and dismal words and between a moan and a plea i whisper:

this is how you rise / when there’s no coming back from the fall / in the arms of the lover the good book foretold

t. bennett ; @raggedhearts

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